Falling
by dogstar-ebony
Summary: Her eyes are as soft as clouds and make him forget how to talk. Viktor Krum's relationship with Hermione Granger was by no means straightforward. Mostly Viktor/Hermione but very eventually Ron/Hermione. Final chapter now up!
1. Dreams

_Her eyes are as soft as clouds and make him forget how to talk. _

_She beckons toward him, her mouth curling into a shy smile, wearing the morning light like a cloak. He tries to walk to her but she seems to shrink from him, laughing delicately all the while, the sunlight dancing in her curls. All he can think of is to touch her, to run his fingers through the caramel of her hair, to press a kiss against her lips, a stamp of his desire for her. _

_He moves more forcefully, but she continues to evade him, and so he begins to run, faster and faster, pumping his legs until his lungs feel studded with shards of glass, until his vision narrows from exertion and all he can see is her. Still she outruns him, easily, happily, and he forces his legs to work harder, faster, blinded by the overwhelming desire just to touch her, so that all he can see is the shape of her smile, a moonbeam. _

_He doesn't see the lip of the cliff until it is too late; he skids to a halt but the ground is too rough, and he goes careening over the edge, the cry of terror torn from his pained lungs. He sees the flat expanse of rock below him and he cries out in panic, knowing he won't survive the fall. _

_He feels soft breath on his face and opens his eyes to see her, smiling gently at him, and suddenly the fall is not so terrifying, because she is falling with him. He throws his arms wide, clutching her hand tightly so that they might both embrace the crush of their landing, the terrifying exhilaration of their descent, knowing somehow that they will be safe. _

_The ground rushes up to meet them and he smiles, bracing himself for the impact…._

Viktor Krum awoke with a start, eyes snapping open to see a pool of black before him. He sat up slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, letting the rush of sudden, inexplicable sadness creep through him.

This was not the first time he had dreamt of the girl. A deep sleeper, he rarely recalled his dreams the following morning, if he dreamt at all, and when he did they were always perfunctory, mundane – shopping for his mother, practising his flying manoeuvres.

He had never repeated a dream before now. And yet this was the third time he had seen the girl, the third time he had fallen from a cliff in the pursuit of her. It troubled him. He had no idea who the mysterious girl was, and so it concerned him that after he dreamt of her he was always filled with an inexplicable feeling of sadness, of loss. It seemed unnatural to him to ache with longing for someone who did not even exist, whom he had never met or spoken to.

He cast her forcefully from his mind and lay back down, pummelling his pillow furiously.

_The journey is getting to me_, he reasoned. It had, after all, been three days now. Though the ship was relatively comfortable, he longed for the freedom the open skies afforded him, the liberation he always felt on a broomstick. The following day they were scheduled to arrive at Hogwarts, and Viktor forced himself to think of their arrival, of disembarking the ship, of all the spells he might possibly need.

Anything but the girl.

**A/N**

**This is ****not**** a one-shot, it's just a very short first chapter, but I promise all the others will be longer. Scouts honour (even though I was a Brownie, not a scout). It's basically going to be Viktor Krum's relationship with Hermione from their respective perspectives rather than boring old Harry's all the time. **


	2. Dawn

_Dawn – Friday 30__th__ October_

The water was cold, ice turned to a pale slush, and it hit him full in the face.

Viktor sat up spluttering, his ears filled with the raucous laughter of Levski and Dmitri, who held a large wooden bucket between them, dripping with the remnants of what now coated a fully-conscious Viktor.

Swearing loudly, he glared at them, their wide grins implying anything but apology. Dmitri only shrugged.

"Karkaroff wants all of us on deck in five minutes. We're close to Hogwarts now." And then they were gone.

Viktor sat on the edge of his bed, wiping the drips from his face with the corner of his blankets. After the dream the night before he had remained awake for a long while, tossing and turning fretfully and trying to rid his mind of the image of the girl. He shook himself mentally now as her face swam before his eyes, biting her lip as if quelling a smile that threatened to spill over; it was bad enough that she haunted his dreams, it would not do to have her in his waking thoughts.

He pulled his robes on, thinking of anything and everything he could bring to mind, so long as it was mundane and boring. He mentally recited the names of each and every Quidditch manoeuvre he knew whilst he brushed his teeth. He chanted every spell he could think of, and its counter, as he combed his hair and splashed cold water on his face.

By the time he emerged from his little cabin to join the little huddle of his friends and classmates who shivered in furs on deck, his mind was as clear as it had been for several days. The scent of salt air filled his lungs and he turned his face to the sky, sagging with the weight of the grey clouds that painted it, though thin threads of light strained through. The journey so far had been uneventful, smooth, and now they were merely hours away from their destination.

As Igor Karkaroff walked on deck some time later, wrapped in heavy cream furs, his crisp black beard groomed immaculately, a hush descended on the ship, so that all that could be heard was the scream of gulls overhead. Viktor's face remained impassive as he settled himself to hear his headmaster speak, but inside he was already disinterested; he had an idea what Karkaroff was about to say, and he simply wasn't in the mood to hear it once more. Besides that, for the entirety of the journey Karkaroff had insisted upon hissing little hints and pieces of advice in Viktor's ear at mealtimes, when he had bidden Viktor sit with him, assuring Viktor in no uncertain terms that he expected him to be selected as Durmstrang Champion. Viktor had taken this with polite good humour at first, but as his friends had, grudgingly, begun to notice Karkaroff's nepotism he had involved himself less in the conversations, answering his headmaster's fevered whisperings with noncommital grunts and shrugs. Now, he looked anywhere but the space which Karkaroff occupied.

'In a few short hours, we will be arriving at Hogvarts, and one of you will be chosen to represent not only yourself, not only your school, but your country. The Triwizard tournament is an excellent opportunity to show our strength, our valour, and our commitment.' His voice, clipped English, was clear and almost jovial, but now his eyes narrowed seriously and his tone deepened. 'However, do not forget that those who are not chosen as Durmstrang Champion will be remaining at Hogwarts, and I expect impeccable behaviour from all of you. Anyone who embarrasses me, or Durmstrang, in any way shall suffer the consequences. _Is that clear?'_ His eyes flashed dangerously, enough to elicit a strong 'Yes, sir' from the gathered boys. 'Excellent. I expect all of you to spend the remaining time on ship practising your spell-casting. I will alert you when we near Hogwarts.'

And with these words he turned on his heel and swept back towards his cabin.

In twos and threes the boys shuffled below deck with him, leaving Viktor remaining staring out to sea, looking up into the grey skies above. A strong brown hand clapped his shoulder; he turned to see Dmitri beside him and, anticipating his friend's words before they came, he shook his head quickly and returned his gaze to the whorls of black water that thrashed at the ship. He neither noticed nor particularly cared when Dmitri strode from him; defeated, his thoughts were of the girl who had visited him in his dreams the night before. He had not confessed this dream to anyone, of course, and he knew that he wouldn't - and why should he, it was ridiculous! He was almost embarrassed to feel as though he knew a strange girl who didn't, after all, even exist. He doubted anyone would sympathise with his frustration at wanting to learn more about someone who was only a figment of his imagination.

He supposed that, seeing as she was only fictional, and seeing as it was in _his_ mind that she had been created, he should be able to simply invent details about her. She liked the scent of apples, for example. She hated the way her hair felt when she came in from the rain, or there was a patch of skin on her left inner wrist that was a little paler, or that her lips were petal-soft. He closed his eyes, gripping the wood of the ship and inventing as hard as he could, trying to conjure up an image of her that seemed real enough, that was more than fantasy, more than just smoke and mirrors. When she was angry her eyes flashed fire; when she was sad she was utterly still, and there was something broken about her smile that always betrayed her; when she laughed he knew it was the sound of sunshine. He invented faster, weaving the threads that were the girl like lace, but he knew that as beautiful as the cobwebbed fragments of creation were, they were as fragile as his memory of her smile, and that the second he opened his eyes and stopped believing that these details were true, they would crumble to dust and she would cease to exist once more.

He sighed, holding onto the image of her and pretending for one second more that she was a real person, before finally opening his eyes and feeling her dissolve into nothingness. He took one last long look at the sky, through which the thin threads of light had widened so that sunbeams cracked their way through and stained the surrounding sky a bright clear blue, the ominous grey clouds of before having seeped slowly away, and shuffled back to his quarters. He would simply have to put the girl to the back of his mind.

She didn't exist, no matter what he wanted to believe, and the sooner he accepted that, the better.

* * *

**A/N Thank you to those who have reviewed this already, it's very much appreciated. The story will take on Hermione's perspective in later chapters, but for now I'm just setting the scene. I'll stay as faithful to _Goblet of Fire_ as I possibly can (hence the date above) but as I've just started at university the next chapter may not be up as quickly as this second one was. Also, I promise promise PROMISE all further chapters will be longer.**

**Update - 23/12/07 - This chapter is ridiculously, stupidly short and so I have come back and lengthened it, because I've just clicked this to check my story is flowing properly and realised how unbelievably crappy this is for a second chapter. I hope this is preferable, and that it was enjoyed. My next chapter should be up some time after Christmas. **

**dogstar**


	3. Stares

The sky had steadily grown darker all day, first twisted with the grey of the clouds it sagged with, then painted a deep violet-blue streaked with the pale gold of the setting sun. Now it lay above them all, a heavy blue-black drape flecked with stars.

By this point, everyone was on deck, fully prepared and swathed in heavy furs. They had no fear of what was to come, but all were instead gripped by the sort of fretful anxiety that only extreme boredom can procure. The day had moved slowly, achingly so, and there was precious little any of them could find to do on a ship. Steadily, each of them had grown more restless, keen to get the journey over with quickly. Some paced, back and forth, back and forth, lost in thought, their eyes shining in the dark with their hopes and expectations. Others sat alone, perfectly still but for the frantic movement of their lips as they murmured their knowledge of tactical spells and charms to themselves.

Viktor, for his part, stood silently, a little away from the others. He stared into the flat calm that lay before him and allowed his mind to wander freely. He had spent the best part of the day furiously working to remove the girl from his mind, concentrating instead on somewhat more cerebral pursuits. So far today he had recited the twelve uses of dragon's blood eleven times; he had visualised every possible outcome of a successful performance of the Wronski Feint (so far he had envisaged nine); he had forced himself to remember the exact composition of Perplexing Potions and the wand movements required for shield charms.

And still, try as he might, every so often his mind would wander, bored of its scholarly restraint, and her smile would flood his senses. That day he saw her only in parts – the bright of her eyes, the milk of the skin on her jaw, the straight edge of her teeth – he would not allow himself to develop the image, though occasionally she strayed more freely into his thought.

Now, he allowed her free rein. It was frustrating, however, to be overcome with longing for this girl, when he did not know her and had never, to his knowledge, seen her before.

"It's perfectly normal." The thought, now spoken, seemed solid, as if merely giving it voice had been weight enough to make it true. "I must be getting sick of being chased – my mind is making me do the chasing for once."

It seemed logical. Perhaps it was true – perhaps it was only an imaginary reaction to the swarms of groupies and infatuated girls that seemed to dog his every step. During the World Cup, he could not so much as go to the toilet without encountering another girl, quill in hand, who had somehow slipped beneath the radar to seek him out. He could not remember the last time he had had to do more than show his face to have some girl desperate to talk to him. So perhaps it made perfect sense that this girl in his dreams did not fawn over him, but ran, teasingly, from him, forcing him to chase after her. And perhaps, too, this was why she had made such a lasting impression upon him.

Viktor smiled, reassured. There was nothing wrong with him. It was perfectly normal.

Karkaroff's voice, magically amplified and slicing through the frozen night air, broke into his reverie.

"We are approaching Hogwarts now! Everyone is to go below deck immediately!"

There was a loud scuffling on deck as everyone scrabbled to get inside; once satisfied no one was left, Karkaroff slid the bolt of the door into place.

For long moments, it seemed as if nothing was happening. Several of the boys began to whisper nervously amongst themselves; an icy glare from Karkaroff soon silenced their tongues. Viktor's mind had just started to begin another short movie, starring the mysterious girl who for some inexplicable reason now wore all white and stood by a lake, bathed in the glow of the midday sun…

A loud bang, as though something large and heavy had just struck the side of the ship, echoed through the dim. The ship shuddered and jerked and suddenly it lurched forward, as though nose-diving. Despite himself, Viktor held his breath and braced himself for the crash of water he knew would not come - the ship continued to tremble violently - he felt the nausea rise in his stomach and swallowed it down; it would not do to be sick – the ship seemed to move faster, faster, hurtling at a great speed and all the while shaking.

"Almost there!" Karkaroff was shouting. His eyes were bright with excitement. "Ah! We're just landing now – I expect all of you to remember my words earlier! You are representing your school and your country!"

Now there came an immense whooshing sound, accompanied by the sort of butterflies one experiences when in a lift ascending quickly. The ship was still shuddering, though less violently, until eventually, finally, it stopped completely, and Viktor trusted himself to open his eyes once more.

"Here we are!" Karkaroff smiled. "Viktor? Where are you?"

Viktor waved an arm in the air in Karkaroff's general direction. "Here, sir."

"Good, good, come now, it's time we got you settled in, it's far too cold here." He clamped an arm around Viktor's broad shoulders, and marched him off the ship, the other boys in close pursuit.

Viktor's immediate thought was that he was in a new kind of hell. Ordinarily, at Quidditch matches, his presence was generally expected. Although he had to deal with girls (and quite often – not to mention a little disturbingly – middle-aged women) gawping at him, and following his every move with their eyes, he was still something of a novice when it came to fame. Now, though, every single pair of eyes in the considerable crowd gathered before them was focused on him, the whisper of his name spreading back like ripples on a lake until he felt as though he lay beneath a microscope, ready for their perusal.

He moved quickly through the crowd, head down, eyes determinedly staring at nothing at all. Eye contact could be fatal. He did not trust himself to look up or speak until he was firmly seated in what appeared to be an enormous dining room. A thousand long white candles hovered in the air, and the wall opposite him was draped with four colours; red, yellow, blue, green. The ceiling appeared bewitched; it depicted an impressively accurate of the starry night sky outside.

"…was going to go to your school but my father thought it would be better to stay more local…"

Viktor seemed to jerk back into reality as he realised someone was speaking to him. The speaker had pale skin and his hair was almost as light, an impossibly white-blond. The boy continued to speak as if the conversation were two sided, as if Viktor had provided any input whatsoever, and Viktor soon discovered that his only real role in the conversation was merely to nod and smile occasionally.

He ate in silence, barely registering what anyone around him was saying or doing. Tiredness had settled in; it pressed upon his eyes, making them hot and itchy; it had sunk into his very bones, so that each lifting of his fork to his lips seemed an effort, an exercise in will.

"Viktor. It is time to go." Viktor jumped at the unexpected voice and turned to see Dmitri, his own face as fatigued-looking as Viktor himself felt.

"Vair?"

"The ship."

Viktor had just pulled himself to his feet, wearily shrugging back into his heavy furs, when he was grabbed by the arm and turned suddenly, to find himself stood next to Karkaroff.

"Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?"

Viktor shook his head, as Dmitri turned to their headmaster. "Professor, _I_ vood like some vine." Karkaroff's genial manner dissolved as he snapped at the boy, and he continued to speak waspishly to him as they walked towards the doors. He stopped, however, upon reaching them, causing Viktor to almost walk into him.

Viktor looked around for the source of the disturbance. Karkaroff was gaping, openly, at a tall, thin boy, whose black hair sprouted untidily about his head. The boy stood next to two other students – an even taller, freckled ginger boy who seemed to be staring at Viktor, and a shorter, dark-haired girl.

Now it was Viktor's turn to stare. She wasn't doing anything, merely looking at Karkaroff with a slight frown on her face as he continued to stare at her friend. Her hair was flowing freely; it was pulled back into a loose plait, though a few stray curls had escaped and framed her face. But Viktor knew it was her. Words escaped him.

Apparently feeling his eyes on her, the girl turned her head slightly. She caught his gaze, held it, and looked away quickly, returning her stare to Karkaroff. But curiosity apparently seemed to get the better of her, and Viktor watched as she looked at him once more. He attempted a smile, anything so as not to look like some kind of gawking idiot, but she only blushed a little and looked away, staring ever more fiercely at Karkaroff as though determined to see only him.

A jerk on his arm pulled him forward; Karkaroff was moving once more and Viktor had to follow. He kept his eyes fixed on the girl as he walked, as he watched her retreating back.

Her face stayed in his mind long after he had settled into his bed. And when he slept that night, he dreamt of nothing at all.

**A/N So there you have it! This chapter is over 1, 600 words long, which I hope makes up for the abysmally short earlier chapters! Plus I can get into the story properly now, so they need to be longer, and they will hopefully be better too. So I hope this was what the people who've already reviewed were expecting – don't forget to review and let me know. **


	4. Giggles

Hermione Granger did not believe in love at first sight.

Lust at first sight, maybe – if Ron's sudden fixation on Fleur Delacour (which regularly caused his face to burn until it matched the fiery hue of his hair and his jaw to drop freely, thereby removing both his ability to speak English whilst simultaneously making him look as though he had some kind of illness) was anything to go by, this notion was hardly contestable. Especially considering the longest conversation he'd been able to maintain with her before she pranced off to join her equally snobbish friends had lasted exactly four seconds and been composed entirely of the word "Mmfpfmmm". But _love_?

It wasn't because she didn't agree with it. The idea of being swept off her feet by some handsome young man who loved her the moment he saw her was certainly an enjoyable fantasy, but that was all that it was. It never happened in reality. And if it did, it wouldn't last past the part where they walked off into the sunset. Hermione, who found comfort in books and knowledge, simply did not buy into it.

Pragmatist that she was, she certainly didn't understand why certain girls thought that fawning over the objects of their affections, looking at them through big fake puppy-dog eyes, was the best way to make them return their 'love'. Especially since it seemed to earn them precious little in return.

Take Pansy Parkinson, for example. She catered to Draco Malfoy's every spoiled whim; she followed him around like a little lap-dog; she fussed over him and made sure that when she was around he need not lift a finger. And where had it got her? Nowhere.

But what really irritated her, more than the silly girls, were the recipients of such (usually misplaced and quickly dissipated) affection. Where some boys would avoid such females, others seemed to positively bask in the attention – just one look at Malfoy had convinced her at that.

Which was why, of late, she had found herself retreating ever more to the Library. Admittedly, this wasn't particularly hard on her; it had, if anything, benefited her by encouraging her not only to complete all her homework on time, but to read up on anything she felt she was less than knowledgeable of.

Currently she sat in the farthest corner of the library, a spot which for the past four years had been almost entirely hers. Mostly because precious few students came to the library anyway, and those that did were usually labouring under duress; consequently, these students would generally spend as little time as possible in the library, deliberately choosing the seats closest to the doors lest they, horror of horrors, be forced to linger in there a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

Hermione, on the other hand, favoured long, undisturbed sessions and so she had selected her spot carefully. She sat in the corner, true, and it was secluded (in part because of the shelves of books which surrounded it, but also because Hermione generally arranged every single book she thought she might need around her as a kind of secondary barrier) but it was beside one of the library's several large windows, which overlooked most of Hogwarts' grounds, from the Lake to the Quidditch pitch. In summer she liked to crack the window open a little, so that she could inhale the breeze that often flowed through, sweet and clear and carrying with it a feeling of liberation that was difficult to reproduce.

During the winter, Hermione would fight to keep the window open for as long as possible, simply that she could feel the cold wind on her skin as she wrote, so that she could feel the crispness of the chilly air as it flowed through her lungs. Only when extreme frost and the snow that always accompanied it here beckoned would she, albeit reluctantly, close the window.

Today, the window remained defiantly open, despite the cold outside, and Hermione wrote with a fury that dared any to question her. The vigour with which she flipped pages and scratched her quill across the impossibly-long roll of parchment that already had begun to spill from the edge of the table seemed unfounded. Ordinarily, she wrote with vivacity but never as animated as this. An outsider would have said that she was merely more involved with her work than usual. Ron or Harry would have said she was simply being Hermione.

But the true source of her irritation could be found sitting three tables away from her. He wasn't doing anything particularly irksome. He sat, as she did, hunched solitary over a table, an enormous leather-bound book sprawled before him, peering down his rather hooked nose at what Hermione knew from personal experience to be the almost illegible handwriting of a sixteenth-century monk. Occasionally he looked up, seeming to catch her staring at him, and when this happened she invariably looked away quickly, lest he misread her look. Once he had managed to catch her eye; she had held his gaze, not wanting to break first and therefore give him the wrong impression, but when he had misinterpreted the ferocity of her glare and given her a weak smile she had decided that enough was enough and had quickly left the library, careful not to return the smile.

No, it wasn't that he was _doing_ anything, as such. He came to the library almost as frequently as Hermione did, which of course was his right. What Hermione did _not_ agree with, however, were the people who followed him here.

The first few times he had come to the library, Hermione had barely noticed him but for the fact that he had always chosen the table three away from hers. They hadn't spoken, hadn't exchanged so much as a look, but she always knew when he was there. Now, though, she had a different method of detecting his presence. A group of girls, giggling furiously, had taken to coming to the library with him, seating themselves on the table next to his and pretending very obviously and very badly that they were studying. They would always be talking in very loud stage-whispers, usually about how many autographs they had now and whether or not he would go to the Ball with them if they asked just once more.

And he did nothing about them. That was the worst of it; he did nothing to dissuade them. Once, a few weeks before, she had caught his eye and given him a meaningful look, trying to convey her irritation to him. He had merely shrugged, looking helpless, and tried to smile again.

Today, though, they were worse than ever. There were seven of them, all girls from the sixth year, all giggling stupidly, this time laughing behind their hands and pointing girlishly at him. Hermione sighed pointedly and settled into her work, writing furiously in an attempt to finish quickly and so, for the first time ever, leave the library as soon as possible.

Around ten minutes later, silence fell upon the library. Hermione, engrossed in her writing, did not notice it at first, until a shadow fell across her parchment. Nonplussed, she looked up.

Viktor Krum stood before her, looking uncertain but oddly determined. For long moments he said nothing but only looked at her, the way he had done in the Hall four weeks before. Closer to him than she had ever been before, Hermione could only now appreciate the fact that beneath his thick black eyebrows, his eyes were a deep, soft brown. From this angle, his nose didn't look so hooked; it complemented his features, rough and angular, somehow.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione finally asked when three whole minutes had gone by, in which Viktor Krum had done an excellent impression of a mute and the once-giggling girls had fired exactly seventeen death-stares in Hermione's direction.

Viktor opened his mouth to speak the words he had been rehearsing for the past month. But what came out transpired to be quite, quite different…..

**A/N There's Chapter Four, I hope it was enjoyable. This came out differently to how I'd planned, style-wise, but the plot of this chapter is basically exactly what I'd decided on. So, anyway, let me know what you guys thought, good or bad. But hopefully good. **


	5. Smiles

He was an idiot.

He'd been thinking about it, rationalising what he'd done and trying to work out why he'd done it, and idiocy was the only explanation that made any sense.

When Viktor had imagined, during those long hours spent in the library casting (what he only prayed were) covert looks at her, the first interaction between them, he had pictured them being alone, for one thing. Preferably in a deserted corridor where any shame would be a merciful secret. He would have been charming and interesting and confident.

He had run over many scenarios in his mind as he pretended to work, all of them ending favourably. In each of them he was perfectly at ease. He had even mentally rehearsed this final speaking to her, for at least a week before the deed was done. He had gone over his opening line over and over, so many times that the words seemed to haunt him, sitting patiently on his tongue and waiting to slip from him. It was to be nothing special, nothing fancy. He had agonised over the line for endless hours, and had finally decided that simply asking the girl her name and whether he might join her would be the best option.

The sentence had been in his mind as he forced himself to rise from his seat. The sentence had been crystal clear as he made his legs walk over to her, seated in the corner with the weak winter sunlight illuminating the back of her head like a halo. As he opened his mouth to speak, the sentence had been buzzing on his tongue, the words so large and full of energy that it felt as though his mouth could not contain them, as though they would simply overflow from him.

But then she had smiled at him and he had become lost.

Now the sentence hardened into a tight knot, rolling to the back of his throat where it nestled just behind his vocal cords, so that it refused to heed his frantic calls. She had smiled at him, and then he had seen the smile slip from her face as confusion settled in.

When she asked him if everything was okay, her voice was honeyed and full of concern. It was his undoing. To finally hear the girl who had for so long plagued his dreams was like nothing he had ever imagined, and he realised with shame that in all his fantasies of her he had never once dreamed of her voice.

The embarrassment froze his tongue. With enormous effort, Viktor forced the muscles in his jaw to move, to construct the sentence he had been rehearsing so carefully. But as the words left his mouth, he realised too late that he had neglected to engage his brain too.

He meant to say, "Do you mind if I join you?"

What he had actually said was, "You have very pretty hair. Is it real?"

He hadn't waited to hear her reply. His embarrassment weighing so heavy on his shoulders that it required all of his considerable strength to move, he had forced a strangled smile and walked from the library as quickly as he could, scarcely pausing to collect his belongings as he went.

That had been a week ago now and the shame had been such that the memory of the incident still caused his cheeks to burn with humiliation. Viktor had actively avoided her since then; he deliberately sat at the Slytherin table so as to be spared the pain of seeing her, even if it meant enduring the drivel of the pale blonde boy who insisted on speaking to him at every possible occasion; if he saw her in the corridors he would become extremely interested in the contents of his bag; if they passed on the stairs he would hurry past her or else double back.

In the week that had passed he had done little else but try to make sense of why he had said what he had said. Thus far, the only explanation that made any sense, excluding of course the idiocy theory, was that as he had attempted to speak, all he could think of was her hair. She had not bothered to pull it back that day, but had worn it loose, so that stray curls framed her face, and so, too, that as he had opened his mouth to speak he had imagined running his fingers through it.

He had used his swims in the freezing lake to try to make sense of his actions and to work out some form of action. He was here now. Though the frigid air was like ice on his bare skin (save for his swimming trunks), it was nothing to the coldness of the water that enveloped him as he kicked off from the edge. The cold burned through him, seeping into his skin so that his lungs felt on fire, and he swam harder and faster, forcing his limbs through the icy water, so that each stroke felt like liberation. Now that he was taking a year off from Quidditch it was important that he keep his strength and his fitness up, and so he refused to lessen his pace as he swam furiously.

Finally, an hour later, he deemed enough to be enough and climbed from the freezing lake for the last time. Wrapping a towel around his shoulders, he shivered pleasantly despite the fact that the air was actually warmer than the water, and then dressed himself quickly. He set off for the castle at a leisurely pace, though night was now falling; the sky was streaked with blue-black, as though ink spilled on a canvas of pinks and yellows.

As he reached the Entrance Hall and began wearily to climb the stairs, he thought only of his tiredness and how he longed for his bed. For once, his mind was clear of the girl, whose name he still had yet to learn, and he trudged up the stairs as though condemned.

As he reached the fifth floor, where the guest dormitories were located, he thought he heard a noise behind him. He turned to see three others behind him on the stairs, previously unnoticed by him. A tall, black haired boy. Beside him, a taller red haired boy.

And between them, six or seven heavy-looking books nestled in her arms, the girl.

Viktor paused, his eyes fixed on her even as he tried not to stare. She did nothing but merely returned his gaze, seemingly not noticing that the two boys continued ahead of her. Finally, on the next landing, one turned back, realising she was not following, and called out "Are you coming or what?"

She smiled at Viktor - a fleeting, polite smile but a smile nonetheless. And then she was gone.

Viktor stood rooted to the spot for long moments after she had gone, reliving her smile. When he finally came to his sense, he noticed a sheet of parchment on the floor, one that must have spilled out from the armful of books she'd been carrying. Stooping, he picked it up and flattened it in his palm. It had nothing on it, only a name, but he folded it carefully and stored it in his pocket, transferring into to beneath his pillow when he finally settled in bed that night.

Viktor was euphoric. He had been forgiven, enough to be given a smile, voluntarily. And, what was more, he had her name! Now, finally, he could begin to formulate some kind of apology; armed with her name, he could attempt to speak to her properly once more.

_Hermione Granger_

The only problem, as far as he could see, was that he had no idea how to _pronounce_ it. Viktor smiled as he turned over, making himself comfortable in bed. That was a trivial problem, and trivial problems meant nothing at all when he had the memory of her smile to keep him warm.

**A/N. There's Chapter Five, I hope it was what you were expecting. If not, just let me know. I know not much happened in this chapter but I promise more will soon, I'm still just setting up the situation right now, it will improve! Anyway, please review with any feedback, good or bad. **


	6. Memories

The crisp winter wind wrapped itself around him as he walked, burying itself deep within his chest. He ignored it, even as it roared its protest, even as it bit viciously at his cheeks. He barely felt its cruel fury even as it hurled snow in his exposed face, despite the fact that his furs stopped at his neck. He had a warmth in his chest that no artificial insulation could imitate. It had taken residence around a week ago, during which time it had steadily grown, until he wondered how no one else seemed to detect its presence within him when it was all he could do at times not to burst out laughing; how no one else seemed to feel what he felt, though he was sure it could pass to someone else through osmosis, simply by touching him, being around him.

He walked alone in the frozen grounds now, savouring the memory carefully. It was one he forced himself not to replay too often for fear of blurring the outline of it; no, he wanted to remember it exactly, and so he hugged the golden memory to his chest like a secret, a treasure.

It had been a day later. The day after he had retrieved her parchment; the day after he had been gifted with her name.

He had seized his chance at lunchtime. Choosing his seat at the Slytherin table carefully so as to have an unobstructed view of her, he had watched her as surreptitiously as he was able, as she ate. She ate quickly, with relish, and he knew she would rise in mere minutes and retreat to the library, as she often did.

He had been proven correct approximately seven minutes later; seeing her, he collected his bad and made his way quietly to the Library. He had caught her on the stairs, mercifully alone, as she checked the contents of her bag. Nerves had threatened to freeze his tongue once more, and hurriedly, before stupefaction rendered him dumb once again, he pulled from his pocket the little square of parchment he had folded so lovingly the night before and tapped her shoulder.

She had turned around almost immediately, as though she had been expecting him; her dark curls shone as they swung about her face, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"I think this is yours," he began, and held out the parchment. She didn't take it, but looked at him oddly, as if expecting him to say more. When he didn't, couldn't, she reached for it, still wearing that odd, questioning expression.

"What is it?" she said softly. Viktor made to shrug and got halfway there before realising it would appear rude; therefore he ended up looking as though he had temporarily lost control of his shoulders. Unfortunately for him, she had noticed.

"Are you alright?" she said, and though her voice was concerned he could faintly detect the slight amusement that was threaded through it. He had smiled awkwardly at her, suddenly conscious of the pause that was now developing; it was gorging itself on his hesitation and he knew that if he said nothing now, he never would.

He opened his mouth to speak. Too late. Cursing himself silently, he watched helplessly as she thanked him, smiled and turned to leave. Desperation flooded his senses; he must stop her; he must explain. And so he said the first word that came to his mind.

"Hermione."

Except that it didn't come out quite like that. He had studied that little scrap of paper for so long that he was astonished that the force of his gaze had not burned the letters of her name away. He had pored over it for much of the night before, trying every conceivable combination of sounds and syllables that might make up the atoms of her name, and still had come no closer to the correct pronunciation. And so it came to pass that the very first time Hermione Granger's name was uttered aloud by Viktor Krum, it sounded more like this.

"Herm-yeny"

He had cringed even as the mangled word was still leaving his mouth, knowing he'd got it wrong. It didn't roll off the tongue the way it should have; it didn't conjure up the image of her; it wasn't right at all. He had closed his eyes in embarrassment, knowing with the certainty that night will follow day that when he opened them again, she would be gone. And rightfully so, too – he was unable to talk normally to her anyway, and it was foolish of him to believe that she would keep being polite to him every time his mouth refused to work properly around her. Eventually there had to come a point when polite apologies would no longer suffice and she would ask him to leave her alone. All he would have left would be the memory of her smile. After long moments had crept by, and he'd finally deemed it safe once more, he had opened his eyes.

And been given the shock of his life.

Hermione Granger stood inches from his face, a hesitant smile fixed on her face.

"I'm sorry - what did you say?" she asked, and her voice was kind, still tinged with mild amusement. Viktor could only blink stupidly at her in response. Receiving no verbal answer she unfolded the parchment, still held in her hand, and laughed softly to herself as realisation set in.

"My name," she said, and she was only half speaking to him. She looked up at him now, a real, honest smile on her face. "I'm sorry; I know it's difficult to say."

Viktor felt himself relaxing, despite himself, as she spoke, and he nodded fervently at her words.

"Did you want something?" she asked finally, when still he said nothing.

Viktor hesitated. Then – "Yes. I am taking a valk in the grounds. Vill you come vit me?" He held his breath, waiting for her polite refusal. To his enormous surprise, she nodded, and said, "Let me just put my bag away first – I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall in ten minutes."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Ten minutes later, true to her word, she had met him, her hair now pulled back from her face, and side by side they had walked into the icy wind outside. Due in part to the fact that it was bitterly cold outside and in part to the fact that it was a Sunday afternoon, during which most students were either lazily finished homework or else sleeping, the grounds were almost deserted.

Long moments passed, during which neither said a word, and Viktor tried hard not to look at her for longer than was polite. It was difficult; the cold suited her, somehow. It had flushed her cheeks pink, and the mist of her breath tangled in the air like lace; her eyes seemed brighter somehow.

"I am sorry," Viktor said, eventually. Hermione gazed at him in surprise.

"For what?"

Viktor groped around for the right words, wishing his English were more fluid. "The girls in the library – I am sorry if they disturbed your vork – I could not get avay from them."

Hermione smiled gently. "That's okay," she had said, an obvious lie. "I barely noticed them."

"That is vhy I am going to the library every day – I am vanting to be left alone. But also, " - he hesitated, looking at his feet and then pushing forward – " I am vanting to talk to you."

She looked faintly shocked. Blinking in surprise, she said slowly, "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes."

"But why didn't you?"

"I am not having the courage – I am thinking you vood not vant to talk to me," he said, trying not to notice the way the wind swept her hair up so that it pulsed in the cool air and shone like a beacon in the midday sun. "I am sorry if I haff insulted you."

"You haven't at all," Hermione said. "But you could have spoken to me, you know, I wouldn't have ignored you."

Viktor smiled weakly. "I vas afraid."

Hermione returned the smile. "But you fought a dragon for your first task – am I scarier than a dragon?"

"Vell, I vas afraid then, too."

"Are you nervous about the second task?" Hermione began conversationally, when the pause presented itself again.

"Yes." Viktor said honestly. "I do not know vat it vill be. But I am sure that it vill be okay." He smiled bracingly, as if to convince her. She laughed gently. Viktor hesitated, his breath hitching in the frigid air. Then he said, "I am vanting to ask you something also."

"What is it?"

"Vill you come to the Ball vit me?"

He waited, staring at the slight dimple in the right corner of her mouth and trying to pretend he wasn't. When she hadn't said anything after several seconds, he began to say nervously, "I am sorry, forgive me, I should not – "

"I'd love to," she had interjected quickly, before he could say anything more. "Thank you."

With that, she had kissed his cheek gently, almost hesitantly, and her lips were as soft as her eyes. His hands firmly in his pockets, he had dug his nails viciously into the flesh of his palm in a desperate bid not to kiss her smiling mouth for fear of frightening her away.

Now, one week later, he walked the same grounds, the memory warming him, and the egg and its hidden clue were as far from his mind as the stars that would pepper the sky above him in a few short hours. The only thing in his head right now was the feeling of her lips on his cold skin; it felt as though the imprint of her kiss had been burned there.

And that, Viktor reasoned, was perfectly fine by him.

**A/N There's the next chapter – sorry it took a while, I've had a lot on. Also, in my defence, when you're an English girl and don't have any real person to copy from, it is very difficult trying to replicate the speaking mannerisms of a fictional Bulgarian!! From this chapter on I will be weaving the actual events of GoF into my storyline, as so far I've largely ignored it (hence the removal of the first task, as it's not strictly relevant). So, anyway, I hope this was satisfactory – you know the drill by now :D. Ta. **


	7. Proposals

**Proposals**

Hermione Granger was flustered and it showed. Never the most natural of actresses, she was currently wracking her brains for any kind of response to the question that had just been posed to her. So far, two minutes and thirty seconds had passed in which she had yielded no response; nothing she felt would be kind enough, at least. And now Neville Longbottom stood before her, fiddling nervously with the strap of his bag, his round moon-face steadily growing pinker. It wasn't that she wanted to lie to him. She had a perfectly reasonable, and perfectly true, excuse for turning him down. It was just that he had practically jumped out on her (had he been hiding behind that statue, waiting for her, or was it merely a frightening coincidence that he'd sprung from it as soon as she passed it?) and said his words all in a rush, stumbling over them, so that it had taken her most of the first two minutes trying simply to decipher his comment and deduce that it had in fact been a question.

"I'm really sorry…" she began, and faltered as she saw his face fall for the split second before he caught himself and forced the smile back to his face. It did not, she noted, reach his eyes. "I'm already going with someone else."

Neville, to his credit, smiled at her and nodded. "That's okay. Just an idea. Well, see you later," he said quickly, and before she had time to respond he had wheeled around and was gone. Hermione felt for him, but what could she have done? She wasn't entirely sure she would have gone with Neville had Viktor not asked her, but the point was that Viktor _had_ asked her. It had been a week since he had caught her on the stairs, and even now she wasn't sure why she had agreed to walk with him; whether it had been sheer intrigue, whether it had been the unexpectedness of the request, or whether it had simply been the way he had said her name and blushed without knowing he had. It wasn't as though she'd taken particular notice of him before – excluding Ron's feverish bouts of adoration and of course the harem of girls who had taken to following Viktor around, stealing the silence from the library – and yet it seemed that he had clearly noticed her.

But oddly, in the week that had passed since, she had not seen him once. At mealtimes, there was no sign of him; she no longer saw him swimming in the lake, seemingly impervious to the piercing cold; he even seemed to be avoiding the library. Never prone to histrionics, Hermione had simply attributed this absence to his persistence in working out the clue that the golden egg held. Which was more than could be said for Harry, who was currently resisting every attempt Hermione had made to encourage him otherwise.

Still, Hermione reasoned, even if Viktor had made himself seemingly disappear this week, she would definitely be seeing him at the Yule Ball, which now seemed closer than ever before.

The week of the Ball arrived crisply, and the landscape, seemingly aware of the impending festivities, was steadily painted white, so that the grounds seemed to emit an almost pearlescent glow and Hagrid's hut was nothing more than a fat creamy little blob, discernible against the unbroken flat of the snow only by the dust-grey smoke that trailed lazily from his chimney and twisted in the untainted clear of the sky like the strings of kites. Today, the final day of term before the Christmas holidays, seemed colder than usual; breath hung in the air like lace and the ruddy pink glow of cold cheeks was all that was visible over the thick scarves wound around most people's necks.

Finishing in the library and feeling that three rolls of parchment was perhaps enough notes for a test (Potions) that she wouldn't be sitting for several weeks, Hermione Granger slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way back to the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, intending to curl up beside the fire in one of the squashier armchairs and perhaps read up on her Ancient Runes. She had headed up to the library after dinner (an unusually solitary affair; inexplicably, Ron and Harry had abandoned her, and she doubted that it could be because of their studies) in what she told herself was an excuse to get a head start on her Potions revision, but in fact what she now, rather embarrassedly, realised was that it had been a veiled attempt at seeing whether Viktor was there or not; she still had seen nothing of him. Her visit had been in vain – the only other occupied table besides Hermione's was taken by a group of rather flustered-looking first years leafing hurriedly through an old, dusty volume, one of whom muttered "It's got to be in here…Kevin can't keep his ears like that…" rather loudly.

Hermione climbed through the portrait hole and, spotting her friends immediately, made her way over to them. "Why weren't you two at dinner?" she asked, puzzled: already sniggering, Harry and Ron appeared to have begun to laugh more loudly at her arrival. She needn't have worried: a quick comment from Ginny soon silence them. Ron in particular looked shamefaced. And serve him right too. Maybe now he'd have to ask a "troll" – maybe then he'd think twice before being so cruel.

"All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?" she said. "Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she? Well, I'm sure you'll find someone _somewhere_ who'll have you."

She had started to suppress her smug smile when she noticed something odd; far from irritation or anger, Ron's expression seemed faraway as he gazed at her now, his brow furrowed slightly and a half-smile on his lips as though contemplating some new and not altogether unpleasant idea. "Hermione," he said, "Neville's right – you _are_ a girl…"

"Oh, well spotted," she said waspishly, irritated.

"Well, you can come with one of us!"

"No, I can't" Hermione snapped. This was all she needed. Perfect timing from Ron, as always. Fan-bloody-tastic.

Ron was looking at her as though she were stupid. "Oh, come on," he said impatiently. "We need partners, we're going to look really stupid if we haven't got any, everyone else has…" He trailed off and looked at her expectantly, as though his argument had been made and could not be contested.

"I can't come with you," said Hermione, now blushing as the image of Viktor swam before her eyes, "because I'm already going with someone."

Ron snorted indignantly. "No, you're not! You just said that to get rid of Neville!"

Hermione wheeled on him, furious. "Oh, _did _I?" she said, her eyes narrowed to angry slits. This was typical of him, just typical. "Just because it's taken _you_ three years to notice I'm a girl, Ron, doesn't mean no one _else_ has spotted I'm a girl!"

He said nothing, but looked at her, wearing that same odd faraway look, as though wondering how best to get around her. He was looking her in the eyes and suddenly Hermione felt very exposed, as if he saw straight through her, and he didn't seem like Ron anymore; he was someone new, someone different, and the feeling made her heart feel light, without her quite knowing why. She shivered slightly, and Ron broke his gaze and grinned.

"OK, OK, we know you're a girl," he said, irritatingly placating; he was the old Ron once more. "That do? Will you come now?" As if it were as simple as that.

"I've already told you!" Hermione said, fighting the urge to shout at him, or at the very least to slap him. "I'm going with someone else!" And she turned on her heel and stormed off to her (mercifully empty) dormitory, where she lay on her bed, fuming silently.

She couldn't understand why his comments could have made her so angry. They wouldn't have normally, she felt sure. That was Ron all over – he was unbelievably tactless at times, and the idea that he had honestly thought that no one else would have realised she was female simply because _he_ hadn't irritated her far more than it should have. It was as though he saw her simply as another Harry but with longer hair and more curves. But why should she care what sex he saw her as? If gender was an issue in friendship then why had her best friends for the past three years both been male – something she had patently noticed, even if they hadn't.

An image, unbidden, came to her mind suddenly; Hermione, clad in her dress robes, dancing at the Ball, laughing happily, and the hands that held her own were large and freckled; the eyes that looked into her own were not nut-brown and serious but deep blue and smiling. She shook her head quickly before her smile could form, ridding herself of the image and replacing it with thoughts of the revision she must do over the Christmas holidays. She was going to the Ball with Viktor and that was that.

Or so she thought.

**A/N There we go, the next chapter is up, and considering I had no idea where I was going to take it, it was surprisingly easy to write. I hope you guys enjoy it – thank you to everyone who's been kind enough to review so far, which is partly why this chapter is up so quickly. Let me know your thoughts, as always. **


	8. Friends

Anton and Dmitri had never been the kind of friends who understood when enough was enough. It wasn't that they hadn't noticed Viktor's change of mood – how he could always now be found with a previously-rare smile across his face; how his permanent frown seemed to have lifted; how his serious demeanour had suddenly changed – it was merely that they were considering the best way to exploit this so as to annoy him as much as possible, and Anton and Dmitri had long ago discovered that the best (by which, of course, I mean "the most fun") way of determining this was the process of elimination. Therefore, as exchanging his swimming shorts for a pair two sizes too large had failed (he had merely tightened the strings of it and held the swathes of extra material in his hands as he exited the lake), as had the snails in his soup (which he had not then eaten) and the Dungbombs in his trunk (he'd simply slipped twice as many into their own trunks), the two of them were currently racking their brains in search of some other way to irritate Viktor Krum.

There was no malice behind their intentions, however. Do not make the mistake of thinking them cruel or thoughtless. It was simply that the Viktor they had known for the past seven years was sullen, and in no way matched the Viktor they knew now. This new one had laughed more this week than they could ever recollect his doing so previously, and although they had often wished he could be more light-hearted, this was now too much. And so, not knowing the reason behind his sudden change of mood, they were now doing everything in their power to irritate Viktor in the hopes that he would eventually revert to the old, miserable, wonderful Viktor they knew and missed.

Today they crouched behind an old willow tree, less than three metres from Viktor who sat at the edge of the lake, weighing in his hands the golden egg he had plucked from the nest of the scarlet-plumed dragon. Dmitri, the shorter of the two, hitched up his robes as he flicked his black curls from his eyes and hissed to his friend, "Who's grabbing it?"

"I am."

Dmitri frowned, his little black eyes barely discernible beneath thick dark eyebrows. "I thought I was?"

Anton, taller and darker-skinned than either of his friends, rolled greenish eyes and slapped a gnat from his large nose, whispering, "No, _I'm _grabbing it and throwing it to you."

Dmitri did not reply; Anton looked at him pointedly and hissed, "Are you ready or not?"

Dmitri nodded and began to count slowly. "One….two…._THREE!"_ His voice rose to a shout at this last word and the two of them flung themselves from behind the tree, rushing at Viktor before he had time to react and Anton prised the golden egg from between his hands and threw it to Dmitri.

Viktor staggered to his feet. "What are you doing? Give it back!"

He rushed at Dmitri, annoyance darkening his face, and lunged for the egg; Dmitri merely laughed and hefted it to Anton, who held it above Viktor, daring him to jump for it. Back and forth the egg was thrown, until Viktor was red in the face from a mixture of anger and exertion, and finally, tiring of the game, he flung himself at Anton and punched his stomach. Anton doubled over and the egg slipped from his grasp, hurtling through the air in a great arc before landing with a loud _plop_ into the lake, sinking into the water as though pulled from underneath by some unseen creature of the deep.

Viktor did not think but pulled his robes from him roughly and dived into the icy waters, determined to retrieve the egg before it sank to the bottom, but no sooner had the cold enveloped him than he began to discern an eerie sound through the gloom of the lake. He swam through the murky water, pushing through reeds and praying that he would find the egg before he ran out of breath, and the haunting music played in his mind, calling up fragments of memory he could not quite place. Though he strained he could not detect any lyrics to the song, and so he swam on, losing hope of retrieving the egg until from the corner of his eye he spied a glimmer of gold and, praying it was not merely daylight, he turned in the direction of the glittering light.

Sure enough, there below him and caught on a rock lay the egg, cracked open, and as he reached for it and snapped it shut the music stopped suddenly. His lungs now fighting for breath – it felt as though they were filled with jagged edges of glass, pushing deeper into his flesh as another oxygen-free second ticked slowly by – he contented himself with kicking to the surface, determined to examine the egg more closely then.

He broke the waters spluttering and crawled shivering to the bank of the lake, where Anton and Dmitri met him, worried expressions on their faces.

"We thought you'd drowned, you took so long."

Viktor glared at Dmitri, who wrapped his furs around Viktor's trembling body, and said, "Why did you do that?"

"You're too happy lately," shrugged Anton. "That's great, but it's not you. We wanted the old, normal you back. Plus it's fun to annoy you."

Viktor pulled the now-sopping-wet furs around himself and set the egg down on the grass before them. "I suppose I can't hate you for doing that. You helped me figure out what to do with this egg."

Dmitri looked confused. "Throw it into the lake you mean?"

Viktor smiled. "No. When you open it underwater, it doesn't just shriek at you – it makes a different sound. I think it's a clue to the next task."

Anton snorted. "What are you going to do, sit in the lake until you've worked it out?"

"No," said Viktor. "I'm going to have a bath."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

It had not taken Viktor too long to decipher the clue of the egg. He now had it written on a piece of parchment he carried with him always, and when he visited the Library now it was this clue alone that he worked on. He had taken to going every day once more, if only to get some peace from Anton and Dmitri who had evidently decided that the new way to annoy Viktor was to ask him a thousand times a day who he was taking to the Yule Ball. So far, it was working.

Today, however, he sat not in some dark corner of the Library but in his room aboard the ship, watching the snow drift gently past his window and trying not to think too much about the events of the next day. It was Christmas Eve, which meant that tomorrow would bring, at last, the Yule Ball, and thus the longest conversation he would ever have sustained with Hermione. And yet, irritatingly, he still could not pronounce her name; at least, his attempts never sounded entirely right, and even when she had tried to teach him during that walk, he had mangled the sounds.

He knew he should be working on the egg a little more; it had taken him several weeks of enduring that awful screech before Anton and Dmitri had inadvertently shown him how to decipher its message, and even in the time that had passed he knew he had not done enough research. It was entirely Hermione's fault of course; she had bewitched him with her soft eyes and her nervous smile, and now when he thought of the egg he found his thoughts pulling irresistibly towards her.

And if he was this distracted now, he dreaded to think what implications for him the Yule Ball would bring.

**A/N Apologies for the slightly nothing-y chapter, it's just that I've not been very canonical so far and I can't really just ignore the whole Triwizard Tournament thing; it's a bit too large! I promisepromisepromise the Yule Ball is next chapter, it will be Hermione's perspective, and more will happen. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, I'm really glad you seem to be enjoying this, and I hope this next chapter is up to scratch. Also I have not 'accented' any speech in this chapter as in earlier chapters because they're all speaking in Bulgarian. Anyway, enough rambling; I hope you liked this and I hope even more you'll tell me about it too. **


	9. Robes

Her dress robes were too tight and she looked ridiculous.

They had looked beautiful in the shop when she had first seen them. A beautiful blue, they stared out at her from the window, defiantly bright in a sea of grey and black robes. She hadn't been looking for anything special; she had been looking for quills, but the sight of the robes had momentarily stopped her, and it was with great force of will that she had wrenched them from her mind and continued on, heels clicking like a promise on the rough cobblestones, to purchase what she _needed_ rather than what she _wanted. _

Not that the robes had given up that easily. When she walked back past the second time, eagle-feathered quill clutched firmly in her hand, she wasn't intending to look in the frosted window again. She certainly wasn't intending to enter the shop, even if the blue _did_ remind her of the violets that had grown outside her grandmother's window, and the flat expanse of sky that had covered her when she had visited her beach-side cottage as a little girl. And there was absolutely no intention whatsoever in her mind of picking it from the window and trying it on.

And yet, somehow, that was what had happened. In the shop, the dress had looked beautiful; when she moved the colours of it seemed to pulse, so that it was now purple, now blue, now lilac. But now, she could see the way it clung to the contours of her body, and she felt foolish. It wasn't as though she could simply hide away, either; as Viktor's partner, she would be one of the leading couples, which meant that when they opened the dance, all eyes would be (at least in part) on her.

Hermione fingered her wand nervously, trying to fight the urge to charm the dress so that it lay more loosely on her. Finally, she decided to leave it, choosing to work on her hair instead. The Sleekeazy bottle was tiny and a violent shade of purple; when she had bought it she had worried that it would not be enough to tame her wild curls, but the smiling witch in the shop had merely chuckled and assured her that it would be _more_ than enough. "Just a couple of drops will do it, ducks."

Hermione sighed, gripping the bottle tightly. _Here goes_, she thought, and wrenched the stopper off before she could change her mind. A faint bluish smoke spiralled from the bottle and quickly she splashed some of the liquid on to her hands, pushing them through her hair. The potion smelt pleasantly of cinnamon and honey, and she was grateful for this at least. Finally satisfied, and trying not to stare at her transformation (nor how much larger her face seemed now that it was not framed by her curls), she twisted it quickly and secured it in place with a quick little wiggle of her wand. It didn't entirely work – some curls defiantly escaped to hang loosely about her face.

The face gazing back at her from the mirror didn't feel like Hermione anymore. It didn't look much like her, either. Hermione hesitated, unsure whether this Ball was a good idea, and trying desperately not to notice how effortlessly Parvati and Lavender seemed to wear their own robes. She sighed resignedly. Well, she had agreed to this, hadn't she? She couldn't back out now.

Besides, how bad could it be?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Fifteen frantic minutes later (Hermione had temporarily misplaced her left shoe and, panicked, tore the dormitory apart trying to find it before eventually discovering it beneath her bed.) she emerged from her dormitory to meet Viktor in the Entrance Hall, grateful that no one seemed to have noticed her so far.

"You are looking…" Viktor paused, smiling broadly at her. "Very beautiful." He took Hermione's hand and pressed it gently to his lips; she felt an odd fluttering feeling in her chest and tried to hide the smile that had sprung to her lips. As everyone else filed into the Great Hall slowly, she glanced around, looking for Harry. When she finally spotted him, she tried not to let surprise mar her smile as she noticed his jaw was open.

"Hi, Harry!" she said. "Hi, Parvati!" She tried to ignore the way Parvati stared at her; the way most people looked at her as the doors to the Great Hall swung open and they swept into the room, unable to decide whether to be flattered or offended. She decided to settle on flattered rather than ruin the evening, and as Viktor took her hand once more, settling his own on her waist, she forced herself not to think about the steps but just to sink into it.

Viktor was an excellent dancer, which made up somewhat for Hermione's inhibitions. He rotated her carefully but purposefully, and Hermione beamed as they moved, ignoring the stares and focussing instead on the way Viktor was smiling at her, his eyes soft and gentle.

Ron's eyes, she was startled to discover, were considerably less so. She was used to his dark looks by now; she had been subject to more than a few over the past three years, and yet as they now passed him she recoiled inwardly at the venom he shot in their direction. His eyes were like flint.

Hermione swung her gaze to Harry instead and tried not to laugh at his expression. He looked as though he was trying very hard to act as though he were having fun, but his feeble smile could not match Parvati's mega-watt grin as she steered him forcefully around.

But Ron's face had troubled her. She had a feeling that he would have something to say about the Ball, and she doubted it could be anything good. That, though, would have to wait. For now, she was dancing with Viktor, and any upset would have to wait until later.

**A/N – I was originally going to include ALL of the Yule Ball in this chapter, but I think I'll be a bit evil and spread it out over two chapters instead. I haven't done a nice cliffhanger in a while. Although not entirely evil to be fair, as I updated very quickly. Anyway, let me know your thoughts. **


	10. Suspicions

Hermione's stuffed chicken breast lay hardly touched upon her plate twenty minutes after its arrival, and she had barely noticed its presence. She chewed absent-mindedly as she talked to Viktor, who seemed to have got over his initial inhibitions. Now, though, he spoke enthusiastically, telling her about his castle, his home, and anything else that came to mind and this, as far as Hermione was concerned, was conclusive proof that first impressions were not as enlightening as they might seem. Behind his seemingly permanent frown Viktor seemed to her to be less sullen than individual, content with his own company; he could (and frequently did throughout dinner) laugh and his smile was so unexpectedly, _genuinely_, warm as to be disarming.

After a natural pause in the conversation, in which Hermione had noticed her thirst and gulped down some pumpkin juice, he began to speak again. As he slowly said, "Hermy-own", she realised suddenly that this was the first instance that he had spoken her name since the very first time he had attempted it, and evidently he had been working on its pronunciation. Deciding that now was as good a time as any, she began to break her name down into its syllables.

"Her – my – oh – nee", she said, slowly and clearly. Viktor's look of concentration was as endearing as it was fierce; he slipped into it so suddenly that she got the impression that his was a practiced expression, used during his many Quidditch matches.

"Herm - own – ninny", he repeated. Hermione smiled and tried again, deciding to go even slower.

"Her - "

"Her - " Viktor's eyes locked on hers and she faltered, just for a second, before continuing.

"My - " She said it slowly, enunciating as clearly as she could without sounding patronising.

"My -"

"Oh - "

"Oh - " Viktor was copying her exactly now, rounding his mouth in an exaggerated way so that Hermione couldn't tell if he was trying hard to get it right or simply mocking her.

"Nee - "

"Nee - "

"Hermione," said Hermione, pleased he had managed the syllables without any trouble.

"Herm - own - ninny."

At this, Hermione gave up, resigned to the fact that he would never be able to say it exactly right, and, catching Harry's eye, she grinned. "Close enough," she said, and Viktor's relief was evident in his face.

Dancing with Viktor later on, once all the food had been consumed and cleared away, was certainly preferable to their initial dance. For one thing, most of the other couples joined them this time, which meant that although Hermione was still subject to a very great deal of death stares from his harem of fans, it was less concentrated because of the crowds of people around her. More than once they danced closer to the tables littered around the edges of the dance floor, and Hermione felt eyes on her back that seemed to burn into her. She knew without looking who the owner of these eyes was and she forced herself to ignore it. He would not ruin her evening.

Finally, pink in the face, Viktor left her to go get drinks and Hermione flopped into a seat by Ron, who simple glared at her and looked away, his arms folded and his expression as dark as any she'd seen him wear before.

Several minutes followed Harry's "Hi", and feeling awkward and flapping her hand to illuminate her point, Hermione said, "It's hot, isn't it? Viktor's just gone to get some drinks."

Ron's face made an odd contortion at the mention of Viktor's name, as though he had just swallowed something deeply unpleasant, and finally fixing Hermione with a scathing look he said waspishly, "_Viktor?_ Hasn't he asked you to call him _Vicky_ yet?"

Hermione reacted quickly. She had been expecting him to be in a mood - every time she had looked over at him he had been glaring fiercely at her or else simply slumped in his seat looking murderous – but she was at a loss as to why this was. "What's up with you?"

"If you don't know," Ron said scathingly, his face as hard as stone though there was something in his eyes that Hermione couldn't quite place, "I'm not going to tell you."

Hermione stared at him. She looked at Harry for explanation but he merely shrugged and raised his hands in a don't - ask - _me_ kind of way. "Ron, what –"

"He's from Durmstrang! He's competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You – you're – you're _fraternizing with the enemy_, that's what you're doing!"

Hermione simply stared at him in astonishment. "Don't be so stupid!" she said, amazed someone could be. And especially after how obsessed he had initially been with Viktor. Ron, however, did not seem to hear her observations on his hypocrisy and pushed doggedly on.

"I s'pose he asked you to come while you were in the library?" he said and this time he wasn't looking at her and his voice was quiet.

"Yes, he did," Hermione said hotly, furious with herself as she felt her cheeks burning and trying to act nonchalant so that he wouldn't see the effect he had had on her. "So what?"

She had expected him to falter but she had not counted on Ron's fury or his preparedness – for every defence she had he had already thought out another motive behind her 'crime', another layer to Viktor's apparently 'faked' interest in her. Every accusation he fired at her angered her further and she felt her face growing hotter as he continued relentlessly on, his face as hard and as cold as sheet ice. Twice she thought she saw something flash in eyes, a softness streaking the blue, but both times he seemed to force it away and pushed on.

Harry had sat quietly throughout their fevered exchange, unable or unwilling to involve himself in yet another of their arguments, but as people began to stare he leaned into Ron and said quietly, "Ron, I haven't got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum – ".

Ron shrugged him off like an irksome fly and spat, "Why don't you go find _Vicky_, he'll be wondering where you are."

Goaded beyond endurance, Hermione hissed, "_Don't call him Vicky!"_ and stalked angrily from him, knowing his eyes were on her as she re-entered the throng of dancers and not caring at all. She had a sneaking suspicion that she knew exactly what Ron's problem with Viktor was, even if he didn't know it himself. Not, of course, that she would ever be able to find out for sure. Ron probably hadn't realised and even if he had, he was hardly going to explain himself, and Harry would be no help at all – it wasn't as though he had any control over him, and in any case, she doubted Harry even guessed what she had.

Finally, inexorably, the evening drew to a close and as the clock chimed midnight Hermione reluctantly left the Great Hall, Viktor's hand wrapped gently around her own. Saying goodnight to him in the Entrance Hall she watched his retreating back as he went back to the Durmstrang ship with his friends and was about to turn away when she noticed Harry and Ron approaching her. Summoning her anger she threw Ron the filthiest look she could muster (hoping as she did so that Harry knew none of her venom had been aimed at him) and swept past the two of them up the marble staircase.

She had barely reached the top of the stairs when she heard footfalls behind her and she walked faster, knowing they would be following her and not particularly wanting to speak to anyone. It was at the portrait hole that Ron, alone, caught up with her.

"What was that look for?" he snarled, and Hermione wheeled on him.

"Go away, Ron, I'm going to bed. Fairy lights." She directed her final two words to the Fat Lady, who swung obligingly open, and as she climbed through the portrait hole she heard Ron's voice once more.

"You're the one running off with _him_, I've done nothing wrong!" His voice wavered with anger and indignation, and Hermione thought she heard something else threaded through it, almost a note of hurt, but his words had angered her sufficiently that if she was right, she didn't care.

"Oh no, Ron, you did nothing at all! _Nothing_ other than give me dirty looks all night, bite my head off every time I spoke to you, accuse me of absolutely _horrible_ things - "

"So they're not true then?" Ron broke in, and she knew he was mocking her.

"No, they're not true and I can't believe you even _think_ them!" It was lucky that the Common Room was deserted – everyone was still lingering downstairs, desperate to extend the Ball as long as possible – because by now the two of them were positively screaming at each other. "Just because you were too scared to talk to him yourself doesn't give you the right to be completely foul to me, Ron! I can talk to whoever I like – you don't own me!"

Ron's hesitated, just for the briefest instant, before he recovered himself and roared back at her, ignoring the fact that the portrait hole had swung open once more. "I just don't see why you had to go off with _him - _"

Hermione did not let him finish his sentence – whatever it was, she wasn't interested. Her hair had finally broken loose from its bindings and sprung about her face. "Well, if you don't like it, you know what the solution is, don't you?" she yelled, cutting Ron off entirely.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Next time there's a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!"

Hermione allowed herself some small satisfaction at the incredulous expression on Ron's face as he stood gaping, visibly stunned, before turning on her heel and storming past him up to bed.

Fifteen minutes later, her hair back to its normal self and her robes draped carefully over the end of her bed, Hermione lay trying desperately to sleep but her emotions were still running on high and she was finding it almost impossible.

It seemed ridiculous to her but as furious as she was with Ron, she couldn't quite hate him for ruining her evening. Ron had never been the most natural of actors – she had always been able to see through his lies – but his last expression before she had stormed off had been so authentic she really couldn't believe it wasn't real. Was it possible that she had just enlightened him to his own feelings? Could anyone _really_ be quite that oblivious to their own emotions?

Well, it didn't matter anyway. Viktor had mentioned Hogsmeade during the evening and the two of them had agreed to meet up on the next outing. And if her suspicions about Ron were indeed correct, then that was simply too bad.

He would just have to deal with it.

**A/N There we are, the last part of the Yule Ball. I hope you guys enjoyed it. You'll have noticed that Hermione isn't quite the pathetic, weak, weepy character in this scene as she is in the film (which I think gets her character so wrong it's criminal. It can't just be me). It was quite fun writing the first part of Ron and Hermione's argument though…I may have to do it more often. ANYWAY, let me know your thoughts or I won't even think about writing the rest of this. **


	11. Anger

There's no emotion quite like anger. Though perhaps the word _emotion_ is used incorrectly here, because anger is not simply a feeling but a force, be it quiet rage or violent fury. It's nearly impossible to suppress, like all of the strongest emotions. And it can cause its prey to do and say things they never dreamt of, things that they later regret with all their heart, things they never believed themselves capable of.

Ron Weasley knew all about anger. He had seen it in various forms throughout his life. His mother, kind and nurturing though she undoubtedly was, could, and frequently would, scream herself hoarse at her children when she felt the occasion merited it, her cheeks flushing so hotly that they seemed even to subdue the fiery hue of her hair. And his sister's temper was well-known – you didn't so much as look at Ginny Weasley when she was enraged. Despite living in an almost entirely male environment Ron believed that his sister and mother were pretty good indicators of how women behaved when angered and therefore considered himself somewhat knowledgeable.

Arriving at Hogwarts and befriending Hermione Granger had seemed to substantiate his theory, and for the past four years they had bickered and squabbled, sometimes viciously, sometimes with a joking camaraderie , but Hermione could always be counted on to rise to whatever bait he cast in her path. Her reactions never varied – she would flush pink as her voice rose to a shriek, jumping octaves as her indignation grew.

But until tonight he had never seen her fully enraged. Until tonight he had not known just how red she could turn, how cold her voice could become even as she was screaming at him.

How her words could still cut to the bone.

In the solitude of his bed, Ron tossed and turned uncomfortably as the memory of her last words razed his mind once more, burning themselves indelibly inside his eyelids, so that every blink seemed to beat a tattoo of the words into him, so that no matter which way he turned the accusation remained.

_Next time, ask me before someone else, and not as a last resort._

For the first time since he could remember she had left him speechless. That alone had rattled Ron – for the entirety of their friendship he had always been ready with a quick retort, no matter what she threw at him. It was the basis of their relationship, how the unlikely trio functioned – he joked around with Harry and he fought with Hermione. That was how it had always worked. But the shock of what she had said had left him breathless, spluttering.

He had felt Harry's gaze upon him and had been able only to sputter the odd word out, pathetic explanations. Even as he had stumbled through the words he had known that Harry did not believe him, that Harry knew her thoughts, and he had closed his mind to it, unwilling to discuss the implications of her parting comment and never more grateful than at that precise moment that Harry was his friend. Another person might have forced him to decipher her comment, or read into it, but Harry, he knew, would pretend he had heard nothing.

Ron lay on his back, sprawled across the bed, the sheets tangled around his long legs. Though the snow was drifting lazily past his window and the crisp wind that howled outside rattled the windows of the dormitory, he felt as hot as if he had just run a mile. His mind was racing. Did Hermione mean what she had shouted, or had it merely been a product of her anger? And if she had meant it, did she truly believe it?

It wasn't as though he _fancied_ her or anything. And it hadn't been a last resort, anyway. He had just thought that, instead of having to spend the night with some girl he barely knew, making awkward conversation and tripping over his feet as he attempted vainly to dance, it might have been nice to do it with Hermione, who he knew would have made the evening far more entertaining than it had been. Not that he could tell her that, of course.

Nor would he ever admit just how much he hadn't enjoyed tonight. He had been strangely annoyed when she had rejected his invitation to the Ball, without knowing quite why; Harry certainly hadn't seemed to care, though that may only have been because he was pining for Cho Chang. And he had convinced himself somehow that Hermione not enjoy herself anyway; she would find it ridiculous, stupid.

But then he had seen her dancing with Viktor Krum and something seemed to work itself loose in his chest, hot and spiked, so that every time he breathed in it jabbed him viciously, and a heavy ache settled across his heart. Every time Krum's hand had taken hers he had wanted to break it. Every time he had smiled at her, she had blushed and returned it with a wide grin of her own and Ron had looked away so that he didn't have to see. And when Krum had pressed Hermione's hand to his lips, Ron had gone for drinks, keeping his back to them the entire time.

He hadn't meant to say those things to her. When she had come over he had had every intention of telling her how lovely she looked, of asking her to dance, playing out the scenario that had unfolded in his mind every time Krum had looked at her on the dance floor, and yet the words had somehow knotted behind his tongue, refusing to budge, and all that made it out into the open where jealous, hurtful words.

_Jealous_. That was what Hermione had implicitly called him, and now he had thought it too. Could it be true? Could he really be jealous of Krum? But no, that was ridiculous! She was Hermione, simple as that.

Ron sighed loudly in the dark. He would speak normally to her tomorrow and pretend that today had never happened, and privately he would do the same, erasing the evening's events from his memory. She would forgive him eventually; they had recovered from worse fights than this. And besides, she was his friend. For that reason alone he would force this strange new feeling away too, ignoring the peculiar squirming sensation that seemed to erupt in his stomach lately. She was simply his friend.

But he knew that tonight he would fall asleep thinking of the way she had smiled this evening and inserting himself in Krum's place as they danced. After all, he reasoned with a wry smile, all his good intentions would take effect as of tomorrow, and so tonight didn't count.

Tonight, he was free to think of her as often as he wished.

**A/N Here's the next chapter – and if you're wondering why I posted so late on Christmas Eve of all days it's because I'm up still frantically wrapping presents (so disorganised, I know) and decided that I would simply eat some chocolates and write chapter eleven of **_**Falling**_**. I hope this was enjoyable, and I'd love to know your thoughts on it – feedback is crucial for me and it's waning a bit lately. Oh, and I've rewritten Chapter Two, so read it and tell me if it was worth it. **

**Merry Christmas!**

**dogstar-ebony **


	12. Apples and Passion

Over the four or five days that immediately followed Christmas Day, Hermione saw nothing of Viktor. It was as though he had completely disappeared, and it was only the fevered bouts of whispering that Parvati and Lavender seemed to collapse into at her every approach that convinced her that he had really existed in the first place, let alone had taken her to the Ball. They were doing it now.

It was the day before New Year's Eve, time having slipped around Hermione whilst she stood frozen, and she now lay in her bed, listening to their not-so-discrete discussion and trying very hard to pretend she wasn't.

"…why would he take her anyway? It's not like he couldn't have got anyone he wanted."

"I don't know, maybe he really did like her – I mean, she did look really pretty at the Ball." Hermione knew this was Parvati's voice, even with her eyes tightly closed; she could hear her honeyed tones, thick and brown like molasses.

Lavender snorted. "Yeah, but I bet she spent hours doing that to her hair."

"Well, so did you."

"That's not the point. He can't have liked her that much anyway; no one's seen him since the Ball, not even the Slytherins."

"How do _you_ know the Slytherins haven't seen him? Or have you been cosying up to Draco Malfoy behind my back?"

There were brief squeals and giggles as Lavender threw her pillow at Parvati. "Oh shut up!" she cried, as Parvati began to make kissing noises. "I heard that cow Pansy moaning about it, saying no one knows where he is. He's probably hiding on that stupid ship though; she probably started talking about Ancient Runes or something and scared him away." She snorted unpleasantly, clearly trying to stifle giggles, and Hermione forced herself to remain still and silent. Ancient Runes! She hadn't mentioned a single thing, as far as she could remember – although, truth be told, she couldn't remember much of the night, past the dancing and the soft muddy brown of Victor's eyes and the tingles that fizzed in the tips of her fingers.

"I think you're jealous," Parvati began but she was cut off by Lavender's spluttering.

"Jealous of _what_?" she said, bristling with indignation. "If he wants to go out with her, that's up to him – and anyway, I saw you with Harry on the dance floor, trying to pretend you weren't enjoying it!"

"Oh shut up!" Parvati squealed, and after that Hermione heard no more; not wishing to hear Parvati's feelings concerning Harry, she had pulled her wand from beneath her pillow and muttered a spell under her breath, cancelling out the sound from the next two beds so that she was enveloped in a pocket of silence. The upside of this was that she didn't have to listen to another word; the downside was that all she had left were her own thoughts.

If Lavender had been telling the truth, and no one really had seen Viktor since the Ball, then maybe it wasn't because of her; maybe he was ill. She turned on her side, curled like a question mark in her bed and resolved that before the year was out tomorrow, she would find him and talk to him. She would find out what was wrong.

_The dream begins in the same way. He is running once more, the grass cool on his legs, the sun beating a tattoo across his neck, and he pumps his legs like pistons until his face burns from exertion. She runs beside him this time, her hair pulsing in the wind like a sail, her smile a slice of sunshine, and he laughs as he runs, his fingers entwined with hers like pieces of a jigsaw. _

_This time, when they approach the lip of the cliff they both skid to a halt and as they peer over the edge she looses her fingers gently from his grip, looking down at the dusty ochre of the rocks below. He doesn't know how it happens. He is looking into her eyes and he holds out his hand to her, his fist closed tightly like a promise, and he doesn't have to think; he knows he holds his heart. He can feel it beating against the flesh of his palm, fighting to break its bonds and as he offers it to her he loses his balance and slips and her face becomes a pink smear against the azure of the sky. He screams as he falls, his desperate fingers scrabbling at the air as if they will close around hers, as if she can save him, and he knows that this time he will hit the rocks. This time, it will hurt. _

Viktor, though she didn't know it then, lay in precisely the same position in his little bed aboard the Durmstrang ship, listening to the steady pulse of the lakes waters, as if it were truly alive. He had awoken suddenly; sweat beading his brow and panting as though he had just run a marathon, he had sat bolt upright as he tried to regulate his breathing, to restore his normal heartbeat. He had dreamed of Hermione every night since the Ball, always a repeat of the initial dream, except that there were three major differences. Now, when he ran, she ran beside him. Now, when he fell she always remained unharmed, standing at the cliff edge and watching his descent. Now, whenever he tumbled over the lip of the cliff it felt more as though he had been pushed; there had always been some kind of force shoving from behind, and tonight as his body had twisted helplessly in the air like a puppet, he thought he had seen a flash of red beside her.

He knew why he had dreamed of her. He had not seen her in the days following the Ball and now, a week later, he had dreamed of her so intensely it had wrenched him from sleep. He knew he would dream of her until he saw her once more, though quite how he knew he was unsure. But seeing her last time had allowed him to sleep, and there was always the chance it would work a second time. And, apart from anything else, he wanted to see her, if only to watch the curve of her smile.

He found her, quite by accident, the next morning. Emerging yawning from the ship later than his friends, who had disappeared half an hour previously for breakfast in the Great Hall, he had stretched his arms out as he stood on the ice-cracked ground beside the lake. Then, spying a huddled black figure silhouetted against the horizon of the great folds of greenery that had made up the grounds before snow had blanketed it, he squinted slightly, trying to work out who it was and puzzled by its strange familiarity. It wasn't until he was around a hundred yards away that he noticed beneath the red woollen hat pulled down roughly around her head the thick caramel curls, and before he realised what he was doing he had shouted, "Hermione!"

She turned immediately and, seeing him, had made her way over. When finally she stood before him words failed him, and she said quietly, "You got my name right." Her cheeks were flushed pink, so that Viktor didn't know if it was from cold or embarrassment. He merely smiled at her and walked slowly past her, hoping she would realise he was not walking away. Thankfully, she soon fell in step beside him and they walked in silence for several minutes, away from the castle, away from the lake and the ship.

"I am vanting to apologise," Viktor said after lengthy moments. "I haff been vorking on my egg."

Hermione stared blankly at him. Then, realisation dawning on her face, she said, "Oh!" and smiled gently so that Viktor's stomach hitched slightly and he walked faster to combat it. "I thought…" she trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

"You are thinking I haff been staying avay from you," Viktor said simply, stopping in the snow, and it wasn't a question, it was a statement. When she nodded hesitantly he took her hand, burnished red with cold, gently in his and said, "It vos the egg. I vos vorking out the clue in the egg. You must not be thinking I am staying avay from you, I am not wanting to. I am vanting..."

Hermione blinked at him. "What do you want?"

Viktor did not answer her. Oh, he fully intended to, but the problem was that when he opened his mouth to speak he found that his lips had taken on a mind of their own and simply refused to do what he wanted them to anymore. Her lips were just as soft as he had dreamt they would be. The fingers of his left hand remained entangled around hers, and he hesitantly placed his right on her waist, noting the way she stood on tiptoes to receive his kiss and liking her all the more for it. She tasted of apples and passion and when he opened his eyes she looked faintly surprised, even with her own closed.

When finally they broke apart she was pinker than he had ever seen her and her curls tumbled loosely, the hat having fallen off. She plucked it from the ground, wiping the snow from it and made to put it on her head but Viktor pulled it gently from her grasp.

"Leave it off," he said.

**A/N There's chapter 12, I hope it was enjoyable, sorry about the wait between chapters, I've been unbelievably busy over the past month. I know this chapter ends on kind of a cliffhanger but I promise it will be resolved in the next chapter, and I hope this was satisfactory for people who wanted a return to Hermione/Viktor. Anyway, let me know, good or bad. But hopefully good. **

**dogstar**


	13. Enchantments

It was obvious, though only to someone who knew what to look for. You could see it in the high flush of her cheek, the bright brown of her eyes. She was discrete about it but the smile she hid remained tucked in the corners of her mouth like a precious secret. Sometimes when she lay in bed at night, gazing out of the window at the silver belly of the moon slung low in the sky, she found herself stifling giggles without quite knowing why, and when she awoke the following morning her hand would be curled, as though she held the ghost of another in her sleep.

She had seen him twice since, if you excluded all the times they had crossed paths over the course of a day. The first time had simply involved a repeat of the last – they had walked around the grounds on a day so cold no one else dared venture outside, stealing kisses when they felt they were alone. The second time Hermione was rather proud of. They had arranged to meet in Hogsmeade, though she had fretted for days over how she would manage to lose both Harry and Ron, who seemed somehow more interested in what she did lately. On more than one occasion she had felt eyes on the nape of her neck as she studied, only to turn to find Ron's gaze focused upon her.

As it turned out, she needn't have worried. That Saturday she had breakfasted early with Ginny and set off for Hogsmeade alone – both Harry and Ron lay snoring several floors above, and if they asked later where she had been she would simply tell them she had needed to buy some potions ingredients. She had met Viktor beside the Shrieking Shack, her thick hair encased in a woollen hat and her cheeks flushed, nervously kissing the tip of his nose in greeting and silently burning with embarrassment at having missed his cheek. The next few times, however, she hadn't missed.

And the most annoying thing was that, even though she tried to hide it, thinking now about that day meant that she could feel the smile burning at the edges of her mouth and she bit her lip, too late, to try to conceal it. Too late because Ron had seen it. In the weeks since the Yule Ball, their argument had gone entirely unmentioned to the extent that Hermione began to wonder whether she hadn't just hashed together memories of old rows in a dream with some of the odd feelings she'd experienced that night. Ron had been unusually easy-going with her; whenever bickering flared between them he had backed down almost immediately, sometimes beginning to snap back at her before seeming to remember himself and changing the subject abruptly. It was unnerving, to say the least. And now, it appeared that he had been nice to her so that he could introduce the conversation he now began.

"What're you so smiley for?"

Hermione checked herself. "I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No, Ron, I'm not."

"I can see you smiling!"

"I'm _not_ smiling!" Hermione looked away, her cheeks flushed.

"You are!" Ron began, and then he made a funny, strangled sort of noise, as though swallowing back the rest of his retort and choking on it. "Wh-what d'you think McGonagall wants us for?" he began again, clearly fishing for a new subject.

"I don't know, but I hope it's over quickly – Harry still doesn't know what he's doing and the task is tomorrow, he still needs our help and I'm sure I've got that book I bought in Flourish and Botts' in September, that might have a section on breathing underwater…." Hermione trailed off, lost in thought.

He muttered the sentence so quietly it was little more than an expulsion of air; it was only the faint note of bitterness that distinguished it as a comment.

"What was that, Ron?" Hermione's voice was like ice.

He shrugged. "Nothing."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything."

"You did, I heard you, what did you say?"

"Nothing." Ron's face was stony, impassive; he wouldn't look at her.

"Ron! I _heard _you say something, now what was it?"

"I didn't – "

"Tell me!" Hermione didn't care that her voice was becoming shrill with frustration.

"Fine!" Ron spat eventually, after a long, uneasy silence, during which the two of them had stared at one another like lions preparing to fight. "If you must know, I said I bet _Vicky_ has worked out his clue."

By now they were outside Professor McGonagall's office and Hermione was giving him the strangest look. He had expected her to shriek at him, and he had been ready for that; his retort sat on his tongue, poised for launch, and yet she was simply looking at him, her face bruised pink from anger and her eyes soft, searching. She opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to think better of it and simply turned away from him, only to let out a faint, 'Oh!' of surprise.

Looking solemn, Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, unnoticed by either of them. "Ah, Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, come in, please." she said, unaware or unfazed by their argument and she gestured the two of them, now blushing, into the room. "Where have your brothers got to, Mr Weasley? They were supposed to accompany you here…" she trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

Beside a large stone fireplace which crackled with fuchsia flames, Professor Dumbledore stood, arms thrown wide in a gesture of welcome. "Good evening, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger," he said jovially. "Well, now that we are all here, let us begin."

It was only then that Hermione noticed the two people who sat beside Dumbledore, and she wondered how she had missed them before. There was Cho Chang, her blue-black ponytail shining in the firelight, fiddling with the hem of her robes. She gave Hermione a nervous smile and resumed her fidgeting. Next to her sat a tiny girl whose hair was so blond it looked almost white; her vanilla skin was pale, so that Hermione glanced down at her wrists without thinking, expecting to see the rich blue of her veins tattooed there. She looked frightened, biting her lip and with wide blue eyes.

"Now," began Professor Dumbledore. "First of all, let me assure all four of you that you are in no trouble whatsoever -" (Hermione felt the knot in her stomach loosen a little) " – and have been called here to ask for your assistance in the Triwizard Tournament. The second task for the champions, which I'm afraid is rather more difficult, will be to enter the Lake for the period of one hour. However, during that one hour they each must retrieve something precious stolen from them and hidden at the bottom of the Lake, and this, I am pleased to add, is where the four of you come in."

"We're the stolen things at the bottom of the Lake?" Hermione asked, and Dumbledore beamed in response.

"Indeed you are, Miss Granger."

"Hang on – what about the Giant Squid?" broke in Ron, frowning. "And the Grindylows?"

"Mr Weasley, I assure you that you will all be quite safe for the entire time you are submerged. You have my word."

"So who's supposed to save us?" Ron asked. "Is it random like the dragons?"

"No," smiled Dumbledore, "no, no, each of you had been pre-selected for your champion. Mr Potter will be retrieving you, Mr Weasley; Miss Chang, you will be retrieved by Mr Diggory; _mademoiselle Delacour, tu sera retrouvé par ta sœur, _and, last but by no means least, Miss Granger, you will be retrieved by Mr Krum."

Once more, Hermione fought to control the butterflies that swarmed her stomach and try to avoid Ron's triumphant glare as he saw the smile that skimmed the edges of her mouth.

"How're we going to be under the water for the hour though?" asked Cho.

"Excellent question, Miss Chang, excellent question! You will be placed into an enchanted sleep – all quite safe, I assure you – which will allow you to breathe naturally and so that you are not frightened during the task – the Lake can be rather eerie at times." Dumbledore paused and smiled gently at them all. None of them looked particularly convinced.

"Now, if we are all quite ready," Dumbledore said, apparently oblivious to their lack of enthusiasm, "then I shall begin, if you don't mind. Miss Chang, if you please?"

Cho stepped forward hesitantly; Dumbledore performed a complicated flick of his wand, muttering under his breath (Hermione strained to hear the words of the spell but he spoke so quickly and so quietly it was impossible) and seconds later Cho's head dipped forward. It was peculiar to see. Her cheek rested against her left shoulder and she snored softly and yet she remained stood upright just as before. Gabrielle Delacour was called on next and she stood biting her lip, her eyes wide and fearful despite Dumbledore's gentle reassurances, and when he muttered the incantation he knelt before her so that he did not seem to tower above her. Her silver hair fanned over her face like a veil, obscuring her pretty features.

Ron came next, and it wasn't as strange to watch because she had seen him sleeping so many times before, but all the same she found herself gazing at his face, softer in repose, and wondering when the last time had been that she had seen his face so gentled. Most of the time it was carefully arranged so that she could never tell exactly what he was thinking, though there was always that tiny half-second when he didn't quite get the mask up fast enough.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore's voice stumbled upon her daydreaming, stunning her from her reverie; blushing slightly, she tore her gaze from Ron and stepped forward.

It was the strangest feeling. One moment she was looking Dumbledore straight in the eye, still trying to hear the words, fascinated by their effectiveness. And then it was as though someone had drawn a great black veil across her eyes; Dumbledore was gone, the room was gone, and she was alone in blackness.

**A/N I promise the next chapter will be the lake scene – it was going to be this chapter but I didn't want to suddenly switch to Viktor's perspective, because I can hardly do it from Hermione's seeing as she's unconscious throughout it! So next chapter will be Viktor, the second task, and what happens directly after. Anyway, I hope this was enjoyable, please let me know your thoughts, good or bad. **

**dogstar**


	14. The Lake

At first Viktor's skin only tingled, as though cool breath played across its surface. Then, quite suddenly, his face began to burn so that he winced; his skin seemed almost to vibrate and he closed his eyes tightly as the spell took effect, not wanting to see the transformation. He felt an odd pressure around his nose as it was elongated and widened; his mouth seemed to stretch as though a Quaffle were being forced through it from his throat and he ran his tongue along the serrated edge of his razor-like teeth as they seemed to multiply. When finally he opened his eyes, it was as though the world had been shrunk, and as a sudden pain sliced through his mind he flung himself head first into the icy waters of the Lake.

Viktor floundered for a moment or two before finding his bearings, and then he kicked down, the cold slipping around his skin like a familiar friend. His previous forays into the Lake now became an advantage, and though his skin prickled from the frigid waters he barely noticed, intent on his purpose.

He had memorised the clue the egg held, and it had not taken long for him to work out its meaning. How anyone knew she was what he would _sorely miss_, Viktor didn't want to contemplate. He swum further, the swaying mass of black weeds seeming to beckon to him, and within minutes he knew he was farther than he had come before. His tiny eyes, a disadvantage at the shore, quickly adjusted to the gloom and he carved a way easily through the tangle of weeds, his massive jaws easily moving aside any that hindered him.

It had taken long hours of searching in the Library for this particular spell. He had thought of it immediately, remembering one of his last Transfiguration classes the year before. Facial Transfiguration was one of the most difficult and dangerous forms of Transfiguration, particularly cross-species. If it wasn't performed exactly right the consequences could be horrific. Viktor remembered flicking through one of his textbooks, staring grimly at the gruesome moving pictures of unfortunate spell-casters. But of course the book he had read had been by a famous Bulgarian witch, and though he searched, it was not to be found on the Hogwarts library shelves, forcing him to painstakingly work his way through every likely textbook he could find. As he had cast the spell on the edge of the lake a whispered prayer had escaped his lips, but miraculously it had worked first time.

Viktor swam on, kicking the weeds that clung to his feet aside and snapping his powerful jaws at the ghostly jade forms of the Grindylows that surrounded him, sending them skittering away. The dark pressed in upon him, weighing him down, and he wondered how much longer he had to find Hermione; time had no relevance in this gently rippling gloom. He had no idea where any of the other champions were; earlier he thought he had glimpsed Cedric Diggory but his head had been encased in a filmy bubble which pulsed with his breath and distorted his features.

Viktor sensed movement from the corner of his eye and turned his massive head carefully to see an enormous black mass moving beside him like a shadow. Startled, he swam aside before turning once more to see the dark form of the giant squid floating lazily past him, one immense eye staring mournfully at him, strangely bright in the flickering half-light from the lake's surface. It seemed to look at Viktor for long moments, and it was only when it closed its eye slowly and continued on its way that Viktor realised he had been holding his breath, and he too swam away.

It felt as though he had been swimming forever; his limbs began to ache with the force of his exertion and the water was growing darker as disturbed mud swilled around him. Finally, he heard dimly the high voices, floating hauntingly through the thick whorls of mud and he recognised the ethereal melody as the one from the egg's clue. As he kicked his legs furiously a large rock came into view, adorned with paintings of merpeople. As he swum into what seemed to be their village, he felt their presence all around him. Turning his head he came face to face with one: what appeared to be a female, her thick green hair swirling around a greyish face, regarded him with apparent disdain. Her eyes were yellow and piercing, the eyes of a cat and when she smiled he could see her teeth were jagged. She held a spear, and Viktor noted with new horror that all her companions were similarly armed.

He continued to swim, realising that far from attacking him the merpeople actually seemed to be moving aside as he went past them, making his way towards the enormous craggy statue of a merperson ahead of him. Tied to its immense tail were three people, but a fourth floated beside them, tugging desperately at the thick ropes that bound them.

Hermione was tied at the end of the little line of hostages, her head slumped on her shoulder, her hair billowing around her face. Viktor surged towards her, hurtling past the merpeople that surrounded the little group with a ferocity he hadn't known he possessed, oblivious to their excited screeching. He tried awkwardly to bite at the slimy rope that bound her, but he couldn't reach it properly and pulled back, terrified he would bite her instead. At a hard thump on his shoulder he turned to see Harry Potter, his pale face worried, waving a jagged stone at him. Viktor grabbed it, thanking him with his eyes, and hacked at Hermione's bindings; within seconds she was free and grabbing her about the waist he kicked from the bed of the lake towards the surface.

How long had she been down here? Viktor swam as fast as he could but it was difficult work; though Hermione was by no means large she still weighed him down and it was taking most of his strength to propel them both through the murky water. Viktor was built for speed, agility; sheer force was not a skill he generally had need of in the course of his Quidditch training, and so it was sheer determination that made his legs pump now. He was terrified now that the merpeople's song had been more literal than he had initially thought – what if the hour had passed and even now the spell that had kept Hermione safe was wearing off?

It felt like hours had passed when suddenly the blunt edge of his nose broke the surface of the lake. The terrifying second before Hermione spluttered back to life seemed to last an eternity and though she could only smile weakly at him, Viktor felt his fingertips tingle and a grin tugged at the corners of his own mouth. Noting her look of alarm at his appearance he renewed his grip around her waist and pushed towards the bank of the lake where the judges stood watching. Diggory, he noted with annoyance, had made it back before him.

The next few minutes were a blur; he felt Hermione be lifted gently from him and blankets wrapped around their shoulders. A steaming mug of hot potion was forced down his throat and he felt his limbs tremble from the sudden change in temperature; Karkaroff strode towards him and pointed his wand squarely in his face, muttering under his breath so that Viktor felt the curious burning that told him his face was shrinking to its normal state once more.

He held a hand to his face, inspecting himself carefully before lifting his eyes to Karkaroff. "You didn't shrink my nose?" he said, smiling, and Karkaroff let out a bark of laughter, clapping his arm around Viktor's broad shoulders.

"Excellent work, my boy, well done," he said. "Shame about that Diggory boy, though, but there's still a task to come, don't worry..."

"Viktor."

At the sound of his name, Viktor turned; Karkaroff continued walking, heading towards Bagman. Hermione stood behind him, wrapped so tightly in blankets it looked like a parcel had sprouted legs.

"Your spell wore off, then?" she asked, and her eyes brighter. Her face seemed suddenly larger somehow, and it was several moments before he realised it was because her hair was thinner wet; dark tendrils clung to her face and neck. "We haven't done Facial Transfiguration yet. I think that's next year. Well done though; it looks like you're second place. Harry's not back yet," she added, suddenly worried-looking. "Or Ron."

Perhaps it was the effects of the spell wearing off; perhaps it was a trick of the light; perhaps it was simply a product of Viktor's fatigue. Either way, it seemed to him that something about her changed as she said the final two words; her eyes had seemed to soften somehow, and the corners of her mouth dipped, so subtly that to recognise it would have taken the keen eyes of someone used to spotting what others didn't.

"I didn't know I was your hostage until Professor Dumbledore told me," she said, blushing. Viktor took her arm gently and pulled her to one side, away from the judges, so that they stood alone.

"I did not know either," he said truthfully. "But ven I vos in the lake, somehow, I knew it vos you. It vos strange." He frowned slightly; then, taking her hand in his, he looked into her eyes, willing himself to say the words before he lost courage or they were disturbed. "I think you are very special, Herm-own-ninny. I haff not felt this for any other girl." He smiled to give weight to his words, and she beamed back at him, until his earlier doubt was erased.

"Viktor, I - " she began, her eyes bright, but he cut in before she could finish, afraid to stop now that he had begun to give voice to his thoughts at last, afraid he would lose his nerve or forget his words.

"I vill haff to return to Bulgaria when the Tournament is over. If you are not doing anything in the summer – if you haff no other plans – I vos thinking perhaps you vood visit me?"

If Hermione was smiling before it was nothing to the grin she now bestowed on him. Viktor felt the knot inside him loosen slightly, so that it didn't feel quite so much as if it were cutting into his insides and his breath came easier. Hermione opened her mouth to answer him - and then Madame Pomfrey appeared, fussing over Hermione who cast him an apologetic smile before resigning herself to Pomfrey's administrations. By now Harry had returned and he stood beside Pomfrey in a little group, talking rapidly to Hermione.

Moving to stand beside her, Viktor saw movement in the corner of his eye; a flash of green wriggled in her dark curls. "You haff a water-beetle in your hair, Herm-own-ninny," he said, and perhaps he imagined it but he felt sure Harry cast him a dark look as he did so.

Viktor did not care. Although Hermione had not given him a definite answer, he felt sure that her answer had been going to be acceptance, and no amount of dark looks could ruin that for him.

**A/N There is the new chapter, the infamous Lake Scene, which was actually quite difficult to write without sounding like a rip-off of the JK version of the scene! I hope it was enjoyable, please let me know all your thoughts and feedback, good OR bad. Toodlepip. **


	15. Revelations

**Revelations**

With a beautiful melodious crack, his arm twisted at the socket, arched unnaturally and finally snapped away altogether. The darkly handsome face frowned in indignation at such treatment, which was swiftly accompanied by the slow meticulous removal of his left arm. His torturer paused briefly in his actions to allow himself a wry grin, imagining the pitiful screams for mercy which the pliant victim had yet to yield. 

Ron was not mutilating the little figurine out of jealousy, of course, or even anger, even though every twists of its limbs that was accompanied by a vision of _him_ was that little bit more violent. No, this destruction stemmed from a simple need to grow up, to leave behind the last lingering remnants of his childhood by throwing out his old things. The figurine, of course, was not old at all, but all the same, it had to go. 

He blamed his current mood on that stupid article, and that foul woman. Hermione had laughed it off, of course, but now she was becoming tired of finding _Mrs Krum_ scrawled magically across her notebooks by various classmates, most of the Slytherins, and therefore was becoming more irritable than usual. Which meant that she was bickering with Ron more often than usual, which in turn meant that he still, as yet, had not managed to elicit a response from her as to whether or not she had taken stupid _Vicky_ up on his offer to stay. 

He'd seen his face when they came up from the Lake that day. He'd seen the way he had continued to stroke her hair even after he'd pulled the beetle out, and Hermione's face had been pressed into a small smile – Hermione who had ridiculed Ron for being so awed by him, Hermione who had been irritated at the sight of other girls doing exactly what she was doing now. He had also seen the way he smiled when he saw her in the corridors, so often that Ron now knew the precise shade Hermione flushed when she received his smile. He knew the exact shape her eyes took when she returned it, and he knew that the weight of her smile sometimes felt as though it would crush him. 

Harry's sudden appearance in the doorway of the dormitory sent Ron shuffling across the floor, shoving the mangled figurine beneath his bed and trying not to look as flustered as he felt. 

"You coming for dinner?" came Harry's voice from the doorway. 

"Yeah, just a sec," Ron replied, pulling his blankets down carefully so that the little figurine of Krum was entirely hidden from view. He stood, brushing his hands on his robes. "Ready?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Thirteen minutes later they were seated at the Gryffindor table, Harry loading his plate with roast beef and mashed potato. Ron's plate was similarly loaded, though he was not shovelling his food into his mouth with his usual relish. Instead he was looking across the table to Hermione's seat, which was vacant. 

"Where's Hermione?" he asked Harry, trying to sound casual.

Harry only shrugged. "Library, probably." He stared pointedly at Ron's full plate. "Are you dieting or something?"

"What?" Ron was confused. 

"Normally you're on second helpings by now."

"I'm just not hungry, that's all," Ron said flatly, trying to ignore the disbelieving way Harry's eyebrows had risen, and pulled himself up from the table. "I'm going for a walk…not feeling well…fresh air," he mumbled vaguely, and then he was walking briskly from the Great Hall, not listening to Harry's voice calling him back. 

Hermione was not in the Library. Ron knew that. He didn't know how he knew, but something told him she wasn't there. Perhaps it was intuition. Perhaps it was fate. Or perhaps it was the fact that, as he walked past the Slytherin table, there had been an empty seat beside Malfoy which was usually filled by Krum. 

Reaching the heavy wooden doors in the Entrance Hall, Ron pushed one and slid through the gap that cracked open. Outside the sky was slowly thickening to a deep red, swollen as if with blood, though it was still light. Ron felt himself shivering, though it wasn't cold, and hugging himself he began walking. He walked aimlessly, thinking of everything and nothing at all. 

It was approximately half an hour later, by which point he had reached the main courtyard, when he heard hushed voices; someone laughing, someone else quietening them. Something about the quality of the laugh and the way it made the air resonate persuaded him to hide behind a crumbling statue of a three-eyed hag to listen. He leaned around the edge of the statue carefully. 

It was them. 

She stood, wrapped in cloaks and happiness, looking up at him, her face bright and clear. He smiled down, that irritating smile that made Ron want to punch him, and his fingers were tightly laced around hers, even though he stood right next to her, even though there was no one else around. He dipped his head to listen as Hermione said something quietly, and Ron couldn't understand how she hadn't noticed the way his eyes were too close together, when he, Ron, had and he was all the way over here. 

Hermione was speaking, and Ron strained his ears to listen. "I just wish I'd been awake to see your shark head – apparently it was excellent."

"I vood haff used the Bubble-Head Charm but I did not think of it in time," Krum said ruefully, "But Gillyweed vos probably the best idea." 

Hermione smiled, a slice of sunshine. "I don't know what made him think of Gillyweed, but it was a brilliant idea."

"You like Harry Potter," Krum said, and though Hermione didn't seem to catch it Ron could feel the serrated edge to his voice, lent by bitterness. He knew it was there because it was all too familiar. 

"Of course I like him, he's my best friend," Hermione replied, and Ron's face darkened. _What about me?__What am I?_

"You still haff not answered my question," Krum said gently, though Ron got the impression that this was more about a desire to change the subject than to hear the answer. "About staying at my home in the summer."

There was a long, pregnant pause before Hermione smiled up at him. "I'd love to," she said, and Ron didn't need to see Krum's face to know that the smile across it seemed to crack it in two. And he certainly didn't need to see what happened next. 

He dipped his head once more and turned her face gently towards his, his fingers still wrapped tight around hers, and when her lips met his he pulled her closer, placing a large hand on the small of her back. And Ron, watching from the shadows, thought _So it's like that, is it?_

Suddenly he felt a fool. He had spent so much time focussing his energies upon his new-found hatred of Krum that he had neglected to look properly at Hermione. And she was happy. Or at least she looked it. He had genuinely thought (or at least convinced himself that he thought) that Krum was using her, pursuing her to aid him in the Tournament. And yet there had been no trace of that in the conversation he had overheard. His hands had been holding Hermione's but she had made no made to remove them from her either. And she had kissed him. She was still kissing him now. 

He left them like that.

**Author's Note**

Here's the latest chapter, apologies to anyone who's been waiting, I've been very busy and have had loads of one-shots that insisted on being written first. This is a basic filler chapter, which is why it's not as up-to-scratch as the others, so apologies there. And also apologies to anyone hoping this will stay a Hermione/Viktor fic – it will for the most part but eventually it won't for two simple reasons. Firstly, because this is as canonical as I can possibly make it, which means that Hermione must end up with Ron eventually and secondly because Hermione and Ron are my biggest ship. 

Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait. And remember to review rather than just clicking Story Alert!


	16. Hate Mail and Confrontations

**Hate Mail and Confrontations**

From his position at the Slytherin table, if he positioned the milk jug _just so,_ Viktor could see across to the Gryffindor table, to where Hermione sat with her friends. If, of course, _friends_ was the appropriate word. The _Witch Weekly_ article had not made for pleasant reading. Dmitri, being Dmitri, had been the one to show him it; the magazine had been handed to him, folded carefully to the appropriate page and with certain incriminating words and sentences charmed so that they flashed before Viktor's eyes, burning themselves indelibly into his mind so that, even after he had flung the article from him, they remained.

…_toying with both boys' affections…openly smitten…devious Miss Granger…Love Potion…never felt this way before…_

Though he didn't entirely believe the words, having previously been stung on more than one occasion by Rita Skeeter's venomous quill, there was nevertheless a nasty little voice in Viktor's mind that piped up in quieter moments, reminding him that whenever Hermione was out of his company, she was almost certain to be found in Harry Potter's. And perhaps she didn't realise it, but in conversation he was never found too far from the tip of her tongue.

Viktor watched her now, as surreptitiously as he possibly could. It wasn't entirely easy, particularly since Draco Malfoy, as always, had seated himself next to Viktor and was droning on about the purity of his blood and hinting in an extremely unsubtle way that perhaps Viktor would quite like to visit his mansion over the holidays. Viktor listened with only half an ear, but every inch of his senses was entirely focussed on the girl who sat only yards away. His view of her was occasionally blocked by the shaggy red head of the other boy she always seemed to be around, though he was of little concern to Viktor. Nearly every time he had seen the two of them together they had been arguing, and so Viktor did not consider him much of a threat.

She looked up eagerly as a loud screech heralded the arrival of the post owls, her eyes alight with expectancy, her mouth curved into the slightest of smiles. She had pulled her hair into a loose plait this morning so that stray tendrils sprang freely around her face as she received the ruffled grey owl that landed beside her plate. Viktor's frown now matched her own as the bird was swiftly followed by four barn owls, a brown owl and a tawny owl.

"What on earth -?"

He watched her lips round around the words, though he couldn't hear them over the excited screeching of the owls which jostled beside her now, each pushing their own letter forward in a bid to make theirs the first read. She opened one carefully, and he heard the mirthless laugh that fell from her mouth as she read the contents. Over and over she tore open envelopes, barely reading them towards the end but thrusting them towards her friends, who now joined her in confused frowning.

"_Ouch!_"

Hermione's cry of pain was jagged, the shape of shattered glass, and Viktor winced with her at the feel of it. He could see the tears starting in her eyes as she stared at her once-slim hands, now swollen and encrusted with thick, angry-red sores. He watched helplessly as she fumbled with a napkin, trying to wipe her fingers clean, the tears coming thickly now. Even from his seat at the next table he could smell the thick brown odour of petrol; it clung to the air, making those seated closest to her cover their noses with their sleeves.

Just as Viktor started to his feet, Hermione sprang to her own; cradling her hands as best she could, she hurried from the Great Hall, her face burnished pink with pain. Viktor settled in his seat, uncomfortable. Suddenly he felt awful for having been so suspicious after the publication of the article, because no amount of jealousy could ever equate the damage that had just been done to Hermione's hands. He knew it was hate mail, and not because of the liquid that had covered her hands in vicious boils. He had known it was hate mail by the colour her eyes had flashed when she had opened the first letter as the flurry of emotions had rushed at her. It was the same mixture that assailed him with every cruel letter he had received since becoming famous, but not until witnessing it in another, and in particular someone he cared for, had Viktor truly appreciated the effects it could have.

He had had his fair share of hate mail; from Irish fans in the run-up to, and wake of, the Quidditch World Cup final; from other Quidditch teams he had defeated by catching the Snitch at precisely the wrong moment for them; even this year, from fans and supporters of Harry Potter, berating him for his part in the Triwizard Tournament and even in response to the article, warning him away from Hermione to allow Harry his happiness. But never had he experienced such hatred, such venom; never had he been physically attacked. And all because of a supposed romance with Harry.

Viktor felt torn. Part of him wanted desperately to run after her, to heal her hands for her. A career that involved constant threat of injury meant that he had become quite proficient at healing minor wounds, and his wand hand itched at the thought of taking away the evident pain she was in. And yet…

And yet the smallest part of him needed to know.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Viktor's opportunity arose in the last week of May, when he and the other champions were asked to meet at the Quidditch pitch in order to be told about their third and final task.

Viktor was the first to arrive, and stood awkwardly beside Ludo Bagman, whom he knew vaguely, but his seemingly relentless cheeriness was enough to put Viktor off forming any kind of relationship with him. Moments later the painfully thin silence was broken somewhat by the arrival of Fleur Delacour, who shook her magnificent head with impatience as they awaited the final two champions.

"Well, what d'you think?" Bagman asked happily, when Cedric Diggory and Harry finally arrived. "Growing nicely, aren't they? Give them a month and Hagrid'll have them twenty foot high," The pitch had been transformed into a whorl of greenery; low, impossibly long walls twisted in every direction, running back into itself and spreading across the entirety of the pitch. "Now, I imagine you can guess what we're making here?"

No one spoke, and Viktor, surprised at their apparent ignorance and impatient to question Harry, was curt with his response. "Maze," he said, his answer a mere grunt.

Bagman seemed not to notice his lack of enthusiasm. "That's right!" he beamed. "The third task's really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the centre of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks."

"We seemply 'ave to get through the maze?" said Fleur throatily.

"There will be obstacles," Bagman said happily, looking around at them all. "Hagrid is providing a number of creatures…then there will be spells that must be broken…" He continued to speak, beaming at each of them in turn, and Viktor allowed his words to drift uselessly over him as he stared hard at Harry, who stood biting the corner of his thumbnail and frowning slightly.

In the time since the eruption of hate mail against Hermione, Viktor had not spoken much to her. This was not a deliberate act on his part, however; she had not been around very much. He had noted with a strange mixture of sadness and irritation her absence at the Gryffindor table during most mealtimes, though occasional trips to the Library had soon revealed her whereabouts, which he supposed was due to the fact that her end of year exams were approaching just as fast as the third and final task. But on the other hand, it also meant that she had not been around Harry as much, which did not particularly help Viktor work out what exactly was going on between them.

As Bagman finished his speech and the champions began to move from the winding maze, Viktor snapped from his reverie and joined the little group, moving as close to Potter as he possibly could, determined not to lose this chance. If he missed it he might have to try to corner him alone in the corridors, and the chances of that happening were incredibly slim. Seizing his chance, he tapped Harry on the shoulder.

"Could I haff a vord?" he asked, and was somewhat amused to see the momentary shock that crossed Potter's face. But to Viktor's great surprise he agreed, and together they left the stadium, Viktor leading slightly, marching purposefully towards the lip of the Forest.

"What're we going this way for?" Harry asked eventually, and Viktor didn't look back as he answered him. Finally they reached a quiet stretch of ground a little way from the Beauxbatons' horse paddock. The largest of them, an immense palomino, pawed the ground and whinnied softly, its breath fogging the air. Viktor stopped beneath a large oak tree and turned to face Harry, his face painted with the pale stripes of moonlight that filtered through the thinly spread leaves. He paused briefly, his breath hitching as he gathered the words.

"I vant to know," he said, forcing himself to finish and glowering at Harry slightly, "vot there is between you and Hermy-own-ninny."

Harry's face contorted with confusion. "Nothing," he said, and Viktor stared at him disbelievingly. He had been expecting this answer. It wasn't as though Harry would tell him something was going on if it were true.

"We're friends. She's not my girlfriend and she never has been," Harry said now, staring Viktor straight in the eyes. "It's just that Skeeter woman making things up."

Viktor felt somewhat lighter as Harry spoke, the relief lapping over him gently. This was what he had hoped Harry would say, and yet he was still not entirely convinced. "Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often," he said, and now it was Harry's turn to glower.

"Yeah, because we're _friends_,"

"You haff never…you haff not…"

"No," Harry said, very firmly, and Viktor was glad he had interrupted his broken sentences, because he hadn't known what the ends of them might have been. The thing was, even though Harry had admitted Hermione wasn't his girlfriend, it didn't necessarily mean that she was his, Viktor's. Feeling suddenly foolish for having been so ready to condemn Harry for his friendship, Viktor fumbled for words to diffuse the awkward atmosphere.

"You fly very well. I vos watching at the first task."

"Thanks," said Harry, visibly relaxing and grinning broadly. "I saw you at the Quidditch World Cup, you really - "

He broke off mid-sentence, grabbing Viktor's arm and pulling him towards him. "Vot is it?" Viktor muttered, confused.

Harry shook his head and slipped a hand inside his robes; Viktor followed suit, feeling for his wand, but before he could draw it a man had stumbled from behind the oak.

Dishevelled, he looked haggard and drawn; his pale skin was papery and scratched all over and his hair and moustache were untidy and dirty-looking. Dark stubble peppered his lower jaw and his robes were ripped and bloodied. But, strangest of all, he seemed to be conversing with thin air, gesticulating wildly and muttering to himself.

"Vosn't he a judge?" Viktor said, vaguely recognising the man. "Isn't he with your Ministry?"

Harry nodded and crept slowly towards the filthy man, who was now talking to a nearby tree. Every so often Viktor caught the name Weatherby and he appeared to be giving the tree instructions in preparation for the Tournament, despite the fact it was already almost completed.

"Mr Crouch?" asked Harry cautiously, but the man seemed oblivious to his surroundings and continued his feverish mutterings. His eyes were wide and bulging and spit frothed at his lips; he looked quite mad. Suddenly the words seemed to die in his throat, constricting there and restricting his breathing; he clutched at his neck, mouthing soundlessly, and fell to his knees. Viktor felt the hairs along the back of his neck rise as though an invisible finger stroked the sinewy muscles.

"Vot is wrong with him?"

"No idea," Harry said, and to his credit he looked considerably calmer than Viktor felt. "Listen, you'd better go and get someone - "

"Dumbledore!" shrieked the man suddenly, lurching forwards and grabbing fistfuls of Harry's robes, dragging him close to him, though his yellowed eyeballs stared above the boy's head.

"OK," Harry said soothingly, and Viktor marvelled at the level of control Harry seemed to be able to inject into his voice; Viktor himself could think of only one thing, and that was to get as far away from this madman as he possibly could. "If you get up, " Harry continued, "if you get up, Mr Crouch, we can go up to the - "

"I've done…stupid…thing…" Crouch released Harry's robes and sank down, staring at the floor with an oddly pensive expression. He seemed to force the words out now, his lips pulled back over his teeth, his breathing hoarse and ragged. "Must…tell…Dumbledore…"

"Get up, Mr Crouch," Harry said forcefully, and Crouch's eyes seemed to roll in his head before settling uncertainly on the tall boy before him.

"Who…you?" he whispered fearfully, shrinking back from Harry slightly. He looked almost feral.

"I'm a student at the school," said Harry, and he looked back at Viktor, who shrank back. Harry glared meaningfully at him, silently requesting help that Viktor simply could not give. What was he expecting him to do? The man was clearly insane, way beyond any help either of them could offer him. What could two wizards, barely trained and still in school, do that a qualified Healer could not do ten times better and with far more skill?

"You're not…_his_?" Crouch hissed, his mouth sagging and his eyes so pale now that they seemed to glow in the soft moonlight.

"No,"

"Dumbeldore's?"

"That's right," said Harry, and Crouch pulled him closer once more; Harry fought to release the crumpled man's grip upon his robes but was unable to and wriggled helplessly instead. "I'll get Dumbledore if you'll let go of me," he offered. "Just let go of me, Mr Crouch, and I'll go get him."

It was as though a switch had been flipped; suddenly Crouch was conversing rapidly with the tree again, rambling wildly about his wife and son, gesticulating once more having freed Harry's robes. "Yes," he said, "My son recently gained twelve OWLs, yes, very proud indeed…"

"You stay here with him," Harry called to Viktor, not taking his eyes off Crouch who now laughed in response to an unheard anecdote. "I'll get Dumbledore, it'll be quicker, I know where his office is - "

Viktor didn't look at him. He too was staring at Crouch, who shook hands with an invisible colleague. "He is mad," he said. "Mad."

"Just stay with him," Harry said, climbing to his feet, but this slight movement triggered another change in Crouch, who immediately seized his knees and pulled him back down.

"Don't leave me," he begged. "I escaped…must…warn…must tell….see Dumbledore…my fault…all my fault…Bertha….dead…all my fault…my son….my fault….tell Dumbledore….Harry Potter!...dead…the Dark Lord…stronger…Harry Potter…"

"I'll get Dumbledore if you let me go, Mr Crouch!" Harry exclaimed. He looked furiously round at Viktor, his green eyes flashing fire. "Help me, will you?"

Cautiously, Viktor settled himself beside Crouch. He looked up at Harry, unsure. Harry sighed audibly.

"Just keep him here, will you? I'll be back with Dumbledore."

"Hurry, von't you?" Viktor called to his steadily retreating back. He turned uncertainly towards Crouch, who had ceased his mad ramblings and now sat limply on the Forest floor, hugging his knees and chewing nervously on his thumbnail. He muttered very fast beneath his breath, staring fixedly on a fallen leaf as though it held the answers to everything.

Above the moon shone bright as mercury through a sky the colour of midnight's skin, though it was only nine-thirty at latest. A skittering behind Viktor made him jump; he shot his head around and pulled his wand from his robes as fast as he could.

"Who's there?" he called, sounding calmer than he felt. Even Crouch had fallen silent.

"Dumbledore!" he cried hoarsely, "Dumbledore…must warn…must tell…all my fault…Dumbledore…"

"Be quiet!" Viktor snapped. A cold shiver climbed the ladder of his spine; his wand slipped in his sweaty palm and he gripped it so tightly he was fearful of snapping it. "Who's there?" he called once more.

The only reply he received was a whisper as light as breath, so light it could have simply been the rustling of the leaves in the evening breeze. Whatever it was, Viktor suddenly felt as though he had been slapped; his legs crumpled beneath him and his world went black.

**Author's Note**

**There's Chapter Sixteen, I hope it was satisfactory, considering it's around twice as long as my other chapters. And to all those who have been annoyed that this will inevitably become a Hermione/Ron fic, I promise to do it properly instead of just slinging any old pairing together for the sake of it as seemed to happen in Hallows, simply because I've always shipped them and also because I think Ron at times can be a bit two-dimensional, just some moron with the mental age romantically of a twelve year old. **


	17. Apologies and Stolen Kisses

Falling – Chapter Seventeen

"What d'you reckon the last task is?" said Ron brightly from nowhere. Hermione simply shrugged and returned to her book. "Can't be worse than dragons, can it?"

"I don't know, Ron," sighed Hermione, flicking absent-mindedly through the enormous yellowed pages with her left hand, the other hand propping her head up. The two of them were seated in their favourite seats by the fireplace in a strangely empty Common Room – aside from them there were only a handful of other students milling around – and Ron seemed to have taken it upon himself to talk to her no matter what. "I'm sure Harry will tell us when he gets back."

There was a long silence, during which Hermione did not lift her eyes from her book but could feel the heat of Ron's gaze on her face. Sneaking a look without him noticing, she bet that he didn't even realise he was doing it. At least, she hoped he didn't realise, because he'd been doing it a lot lately and it was beginning to get a little unnerving – it would be even weirder if it was intentional.

"Hermione?" Ron's voice was quiet; he shifted awkwardly in his seat, twisting his body so that he was facing her properly now.

Hermione closed her book. "Yes?" She would get no studying done tonight, that much was clear.

"I'm sorry."

"Pardon?" Hermione said, and then flushed when she realised how rude she had sounded. It was just…she had never known Ron to apologise for anything. Even after he had been proven wrong in an argument he would never apologise; he, like her, would simply forget it had ever happened. That was how they worked, and now he was changing things.

"I'm sorry," Ron repeated, frowning slightly; she clearly hadn't been listening to him, which meant that he had to repeat something which hadn't exactly been easy to say in the first place. Typical.

"For what?" Was she playing dumb to see what he would say or did she genuinely have no idea?

"For…you know…the Ball..." Ron lowered his eyes, staring at his long fingers; then, feeling her gaze still upon him, he lifted them to her face once more. "Being such an arse…" _If she only knew exactly how _much_ of an arse…_

"You weren't an arse," said Hermione gently.

"I was, Hermione,"

"No, you weren't. You were a prat, as usual."

Ron smiled now. "Thanks, I think."

"It was months ago, though," mused Hermione. "Why bother apologising now?"

"I dunno," answered Ron truthfully; might as well be honest now, as well. "I never apologised at the time, even though the whole thing was my fault. I was just jeal- just angry."

_Shit_. Ron swore inwardly; he could feel his cheeks flushing as he realised his slip-up, but if Hermione had heard it, he couldn't tell. Her sole reaction had been the curling of her mouth into a slow smile that made him feel as though his heart were suddenly two sizes too big, without quite knowing why. He felt the odd fluttery feeling in his stomach that usually told him he was hungry, but that made no sense because he had pigged out at dinner, more so than usual; she had even told him off for shovelling the food into his mouth with less grace than usual.

"Well, it's done now," she said, and before he had time to steal her smile away, file it into his memory, she had snatched it back, though the ghost of it still misted her face; it danced in her eyes. "Forgive and forget, and all that rubbish, right?"

Ron smiled. "Right."

Another long silence followed, but this one felt comfortable, serene. It wasn't swollen with all the things Ron wanted to say but hadn't, and he didn't find himself panicking to fill it before he said something stupid. He gathered the words in his mind, shuffling them carefully so as to arrange them into the best possible order, so that when he had finished speaking she would be in no doubt as to why he had behaved the way he had at the Ball.

"Hermione?" he began again, but that was as far as he got, because at that moment the portrait hole swung open and Harry climbed in, looking worried.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"So you really didn't see anyone, then?" asked Hermione for the third time, rubbing her eyes tiredly. Viktor had noticed that she did this whenever the solution to a problem eluded her, a reflexive action she probably had no idea she did.

"No," he answered, trying to ignore the way she was stroking her thumb along the trail of his knuckles as she spoke, trying to concentrate less on the shape of her mouth and more on the words that spilled from it. "I vos looking to see vare your friend had gone and the next thing I knew I vos lying on the ground and he vos gone. It vos very sudden."

They were seated in Hermione's favourite spot in the Library – because it was a Saturday, they were virtually alone, as everyone else was outside soaking up as much of the sun as possible before they were forced back inside to study for their end-of-year exams. They had met here quite by accident – Hermione had wished, as always, to begin her own studying as early as possible, and Viktor had decided to research as many defensive spells as he could lay his broad hands on before the final task. Initially it had been Viktor who had reached across the table to clasp her hands, but now Hermione traced the outline of his fingers with her own in a way so casual it seemed almost instinctual.

"It's just so weird," she was saying now. "It would make more sense if someone had Stunned you both and left you, but Mr Crouch has disappeared completely."

"Vell, I still think that it vos Mr Crouch who attacked me," said Krum mulishly.

Hermione smiled gently. "Well, as long as you're okay, I suppose it doesn't really matter too much."

"I must focus on the final task," said Viktor, stretching comfortably. The summer heat always made him itch to move, to run, to fly; sitting still in a Library, even with Hermione as a distraction, was never particularly enjoyable for him. "It vill not be easy."

"Do you have any idea what's coming up?" asked Hermione, resuming her trailing of his fingers. "Harry said it's just a hedge maze."

"Yes, but I haff no idea vot vill be inside the maze, Herm-own-ninny," Viktor replied, a smile brightening on his face as an idea came to him. "I vill need to visit Hogsmeade next weekend for some supplies – vood you like to join me?"

"I'd love to," beamed Hermione, and quite without thinking she tipped her face up to his, so that her lips brushed his mouth softly and the curls around her face tickled his skin lightly. He gripped her hand tighter, as if to control himself, and returned the kiss, even as he heard a shrieking voice from across the Library.

"Do you _mind_?!" came the admonishing tones of Madam Pince.

_Not at all_, thought Viktor, but all the same he grudgingly disentangled himself from Hermione, who flushed more deeply than he had ever seen.

"This is a _Library_!" cried Madam Pince, who had come bustling over to them; Hermione disappeared below the table, stuffing books into her bag, so that all Viktor could see was the bright burn of her cheeks and the rippling curls on her head. Next she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and hurried out of the Library, Viktor following suit and trying desperately to keep a straight, subdued face when all he wanted to do was burst out laughing.

Hermione was waiting for him just outside the thick oak door, leaning against the wall, and suddenly the mortification on his face undid him; laughter rolled from him in waves, until Hermione was caught in the flow and the two of them finally collapsed, weakly, against one another for support.

"Ve should do that again sometime," said Viktor.

"Definitely."


	18. The Third Task

Falling Chapter Eighteen

**Falling Chapter Eighteen**

_June 24__th__, 1994_

Viktor stood perfectly erect, feeling the smooth wood of his wand in his sweaty palm, his eyes fixed on the leafy entrance before him. He felt as though every nerve in his body had been lit, so that his skin tingled and fizzed all over with anticipation. The wind whipped through his hair, and he refused to close his eyes to it.

The whistle rang out for the first time, and Viktor felt his muscles tense as he fought not to move; that whistle was for Harry and Cedric. He forced himself to stare straight ahead, not to look at the paths each of them took. His path would be his own entirely.

The whistle shrieked again and Viktor propelled himself forward, sprinting into the maze with all the strength and determination he could muster. He careered left, turning so sharply he scraped his taut skin along the stray twigs that jutted awkwardly from the flesh of the hedges, and cursed loudly as he turned right. He ran straight past what appeared to be a large cloud of shimmery golden mist suspended between the hedges, slowing to a jog now that exertion had set into his lungs.

He would win this, he decided as he ran. At the very least he would come second. Fleur was a lovely girl, in every sense of the word, but she was definitely no competition; she was too easily put off, too easily frightened, as the episode in the Lake had proven. The other Hogwarts champion, Cedric Diggory, he had not had much of a chance to speak to, but from the gossip he had heard from the girls who had deserted him when Diggory gained popularity, he was nothing more than a pretty face. He had pulled so far ahead, Viktor decided, purely on luck.

Yes, the only real challenge that faced him now was Harry, and he was most definitely a challenge. Viktor had been mildly amused when he had seen Harry's tender years, but he had consistently impressed Viktor with his obvious magical skills, to the extent that Viktor had worried on more than one occasion that there was a real chance Hogwarts would take the victory. But, he reasoned darkly, he had at least eliminated him in one competition. True to his word, Viktor hadn't seen Harry so much as hug Hermione since their conversation; at least not when he was around. Maybe he was right; maybe they truly were just friends.

But Hermione had more than one friend, more than one male companion, and Viktor stopped now in the middle of a long corridor of the maze. He bent double, panting, his hands on his knees, trying to get his breath back and clear his head at the same time. _Focus on the task_, he told himself sternly, wiping his mouth carefully with the back of one gloved hand. _They're always arguing anyway, it makes no difference_. But he had caught the boy glaring darkly at him, his entire countenance warped with distaste, on more than one occasion by now, an expression that seemed entirely reserved for Viktor, who was now beginning to think that perhaps it wasn't so inexplicable after all.

A scream pirouetted into the air, high-pitched and resonating with fear. Viktor snapped his head back up, his mind clear. _Fleur_. It had to be Fleur – the scream had felt feminine, somehow. Viktor stood straight, his mind racing; the screams had come from the other side of the maze, could he get there in time? Without pausing to give it further thought he broke into a run once more, heading blindly towards the spot where Fleur had apparently screamed.

Left, right, right again; he ran, choosing paths at random, half-wishing she would scream again so that he would know where to run, hoping she wouldn't so that he knew she was okay; he hit a dead-end, back-tracked, turned left once more and hit another; there was nothing but dead ends everywhere he turned; he careered around a corner, skidding slightly, and suddenly his mind was perfectly clear and he was floating, it was wonderful, the task didn't matter anymore, the tournament didn't matter anymore, he was floating, he was free, he –

A tall form stumbled suddenly around the corner, his robes torn and smoking, his caramel hair ruffled and his right fist clenched around his wand.

Cedric.

_And Viktor doesn't know why he does it and he doesn't know what he's doing, all he knows is that he can't stop himself from doing this, he can't stop, he has to do it, he doesn't know how to not do it, so he lifts his wand and points it directly at the space between Cedric's flint eyes, watching them widen in surprise, and then the snarl rolls from his mouth, in a voice that is Viktor's and not Viktor's at all. _

_Crucio_

_And Cedric is jerking and shuddering on the floor and his screams are coming in waves, and Viktor wants to scream too but all he can do is hold his wand pointed at Cedric, dancing grotesquely on the broken stage of the grassy floor, his terrible screams painting the air around them deep black, and - there is a boy standing there, a boy is watching, he has seen, he knows, he knows._

All suddenly all Viktor could think to do was to run; every instinct in his body cried out to him to move, to run, to get away, and he turned as Harry lifted his wand and pointed it directly at him.

_Stupefy!_

And in the dying seconds before Viktor fell, arcing gracelessly to the floor like a marionette whose strings have been cut, in the space between heartbeats he could feel once again, and he winged a silent apology to Cedric, because he knew, suddenly he knew. And then the floor was rushing up to meet him, smearing dirt into every crevice on his face, and his world went black.

OoOoOoOoO

**Author's Note:**

**Apologies for the short chapter but I have some excuses. 1) I've been swamped lately with work and other things. 2) I've been focussing mainly on Righting Wrongs, and this is kind of being left behind a bit. And 3) there are only two more chapters after this, and I've planned them out, and as Viktor ends up unconscious during the Third Task there was only so much I could write anyway!**


	19. And Hitting Only Air

…_**and Hitting only Air**_

Shapes swam before his eyes, shadows smudged bluntly at the edges so that everything was out of focus and the only thing he could see clearly was the fierce white glare of the lights above him. He felt sleep tugging at his senses once more, beckoning him down, wrapping itself warmly around him, but the round shape of his name had hooked itself into his consciousness and was pulling harder, so that ignoring it was unthinkable and he allowed himself to be nudged gently from sleep entirely.

"What is happening?" he croaked hoarsely, groping uselessly for words and panicking when his fevered questions were met only with blank stares of confusion. "What happened? Where's Cedric? Tell me what's going on!"

He was babbling now and he knew it. The words were tumbling from his mouth before he had time to collect them and place them in any kind of coherent order. Flashes of memory fired in his mind and all he could think of was that he wasn't in the maze anymore; he was in a strange bed and he couldn't focus on the people around him. Was the Tournament over? Had he been injured in the enormous maze?

"Viktor, it's okay, calm down – Viktor!"

As the voice penetrated his senses once more he felt a pair of strong arms pushing him down to sink once more into his pillows, and he forced himself to concentrate only on the melody of the voice, unable to see its owner clearly. It sounded lyrically familiar, with a cadence to it that echoed dimly somewhere in Viktor's panicked consciousness, so that it was only when he was lying comfortably back amongst the pillows that he registered the fact that the words had been Bulgarian.

"Dmitri? Is that you?"

"Yes."

Dmitri's answer was as brief as it was softly-spoken, revealing nothing, and forcing as much calm into his voice as he could muster, Viktor said, "Tell me what is happening. Where am I; where is everyone else, the other champions, the crowd?"

By the remaining few words his voice had risen once more from barely-controlled to mildly hysterical, and Dmitri sighed loudly.

"Viktor, you must calm yourself. If you don't you will only make things worse for yourself and then you'll be in real trouble."

The calmness his voice exuded enraged Viktor, and now that his vision was clearing as the fug of sleep slowly lifted he could see that his friend was slouching casually in a chair beside his bed, one ankle resting daintily on the opposite knee, and he was regarding Viktor with a mild amusement on his angular features. He was the only other person in the room besides Viktor; the disorientation must have made him hallucinate, duplicating the image of his single visitor. He was quiet for long moments, so that Viktor felt ready to scream at him once more, but just as the cry of frustration was collecting at the base of his throat, Dmitri leaned forward and said, clearly choosing his words carefully, "What do you remember?"

Viktor rolled his eyes back as if physically searching for a memory that eluded him effortlessly. The last clear image he could bring to mind had been the high keening cries he had known to be Fleur's; him running blindly in the direction of the sounds; seeing Cedric. And then everything went fuzzy, as if the camera recording his movements had slipped out of focus, and the sound went haywire so that there was a heavy silence to the blurred images which screeched occasionally with the faint notes of an awful screaming that made Viktor's insides lurch.

"Where is Cedric Diggory? Why can't I remember anything – the last I remember is Fleur Delacour screaming and Cedric on the floor –and screaming, someone screaming – why can't I remember, Dmitri, what happened?"

Dmitri looked into his friend's eyes and Viktor could see a kind of internal struggle going on within him as he battled with himself over whether or not to tell Viktor the entire truth. Finally, he decided that he deserved to know everything, and when he spoke his voice was controlled, and quiet.

"You attacked Cedric. You used the Cruciatus Curse on him – oh, don't worry, they know it wasn't you, Viktor, there's been a confession. It's very complicated to explain, you must forgive me. It appears that there has been deception, here – a Death Eater has been pretending to be one of the teachers here for most of this year. He has admitted to placing the Imperius Curse on you to make you attack Cedric, after he got rid of Fleur – she is quite safe, Viktor, relax. You hit your head when you fell – Potter Stupefied you – which appears to be why you can't remember very much."

Mortified, Viktor closed his eyes. "I _attacked_ him? Where is he? Take me to him, Dmitri, tell me where he is – I must apologise for my actions – where is Cedric?"

"He…isn't here." Dmitri's words seemed carefully selected and even more carefully spoken. He continued with his story, ignoring the feeling of Viktor's penetrating stare. "They sent up red sparks over you, so that you could be safely collected, and they continued through the maze. Eventually they reached the Cup…"

Here Dmitri faltered, seemingly reaching a point in his telling at which he was reluctant to continue. Sensing this, Viktor leaned forward slightly in his bed, pushing his friend with his eyes to continue, needing to know what happened, how he came to be here.

"What happened, Dmitri? Why isn't Cedric here? And Harry Potter, too?" he said, waiting for the answer he wanted to hear, feeling the buzz of the tension in the air around them and knowing he wouldn't like what Dmitri was about to tell him.

"The Cup was a Portkey. It took the two of them to the Dark Lord. Cedric was killed."

Viktor sank back into his pillows once more, stunned into silence. Staring blankly ahead of him, his mind raced and fizzed as he struggled to remember the last time he had seen Cedric, trying to recall the attack he had apparently carried out on him, but all that came to mind was the way his poor parents would feel when they discovered their son had been killed, what a worthy opponent he had been. Finding his voice once more, he turned back to his friend.

"But Harry and Fleur are okay, aren't they, Dmitri?" He was practically begging, and Dmitri closed his eyes, not wanting to see.

"Fleur is fine – she has been treated for shock. You're going to be let out later tonight, once they've made sure you're okay, and Harry – I don't know where he is right now, but I hear that he is okay too. I do know that he is alive."

Viktor narrowed his eyes at his knowledgeable friend. "How do you know all of this, Dmitri?"

Dmitri simply shrugged evasively and smiled at Viktor. "I hear things, my friend. Now get some rest – I expect the matron will be along soon to check you over."

And before Viktor could press him for more answers, Dmitri had crossed the room swiftly and swept out of the doors, leaving Viktor alone with his thoughts and his conscience.

**OoOoOo**

Three days later the pain in Viktor's head was completely gone, taking with it the residual droning buzz that accompanied it. Madame Pomfrey had initially been reluctant but eventually had relented and allowed him to leave the Hospital Wing the next day, satisfied that he was sufficiently healed. Privately Viktor suspected her change of heart had less to do with his physical stability and rather more to do with the fact that once Viktor was discharged from her Hospital Wing, he would take with him a rather annoying visitor of his, one who had insisted not only on visiting him at every given opportunity (not to mention attempting to visit at some not-so-given opportunities) but also on talking loudly about how it wasn't good, decent people like Viktor who should have been attacked, but the scum who didn't deserve to come to Hogwarts in the first place.

Viktor smiled at the memory. It was a shame, really, that she had evicted Viktor when she had. She missed all of the fun of Viktor, finally taking the bait after almost a year's worth of constant irritation and fawning adoration, telling Draco Malfoy in no uncertain terms to shut up and leave him alone, except in rather less polite words. He didn't feel guilty; the damn boy had literally ambushed him as he had left the Hospital Wing, firing questions and idiotic sound bites that clearly originated from his father's mouth relentlessly at Viktor, picking up pace as Viktor tried to walk faster to remove himself from the boy's company. Finally, goaded beyond endurance, Viktor had snapped.

"Do you _ever_ stop talking?" Viktor had exploded, stopping abruptly in the narrow corridors and turning to face Draco, who had been following him down the hall. "In all the times you have insisted on speaking to me I have never said more than two vords! It vud be better if you said something interesting every vunce in a vile but you do not! All you talk of is how vunderful you are and how rich! I do not care! Do you not vonder vy everyvun you speak to vears the same bored look on their face? Even ven I yawn in your face you do not stop! All you have said is that other people deserve to be in the hospital instead of me but that is wrong! No vun should have that! You have not vunce asked me how I am; you haff not answered any of my qvestions about the other champions; you only come to tell me things that are wrong and stupid. Leave me! You haff nothing to say that I vant to hear!"

There had been a great deal more in his mind that Viktor wanted to say, but seeing the shocked expression on Draco's crestfallen face he decided to stay his tongue and contented himself with striding purposefully down the corridor, each step feeling better than the last as he put more and more distance between himself and the source of his once-constant irritation. The sheer vehemence of Viktor's response had shocked even him; he had not known he possessed such venom, and really, he knew, he should not have vented himself upon someone so ridiculous as Draco Malfoy, not when he knew his anger was directed at himself; anger for having been so easily overpowered, for not having reached Fleur in time though he knew now that she was fine, and for, especially, not having the courage to speak to Harry when he had been brought into the Hospital Wing.

At first, admittedly, he had been unable to; Harry's bed had been surrounded by visitors of his own, and he had then taken a potion to make him sleep. Viktor had watched him from the safety of his own bed; seen the slow rhythm of his pulse pushing against skin the bleached colour of bone. But he had woken in the smallest part of the night. Viktor had heard his muffled whimpers as he was slowly roused from sleep; he had listened to the faint rhythm of his frantic breathing as he fought to regain control of his senses, to the dry shaking sobs as the first pains of remembering where he was and why threatened to crack him in two. Viktor had listened and he had not said a word, embarrassed, made small by the enormity of what had happened to his opponent and searching in vain for words big enough to bridge the gulf between them. And finally, as he heard Harry sinking gratefully into sleep once more, he had felt shame burning his insides as he realised that there was nothing he could possibly say to Harry, at a time when he would not want to speak of what had happened any more than Viktor wanted to hear it and when inane niceties would simply be an insult. He could, and would, say nothing to Harry.

**OoOoOo**

The time finally came, slowly, painfully, but surely, when Viktor was packed, ready to return home. He had not spoken to anyone throughout the Leaving Feast, preferring instead to listen to Dumbledore's carefully chosen words and feeling his skin heat rapidly as the news of the circumstances of Cedric's death became known to the students. He had spent the time since the final Task largely alone and was now carefully folding the last of his robes back into his trunk aboard the ship. There had been some mild debate over whether or not they should return home as scheduled after Karkaroff's disappearance, but eventually Dmitri had pointed out that they hadn't required his assistance to get here, so why was it needed for them to leave? Privately, Viktor was not sorry to be leaving; although no one had been asking him anything with regards to the Tournament, Cedric or otherwise, he was becoming tired of the strange looks many of the Hogwarts students had taken to giving him whenever they saw him. He knew his association with Karkaroff, and by extension any Dark wizard, was the source, but it irritated him nonetheless, though he had thus far refrained from retaliating, knowing that would only worsen things.

Closing the lid of the trunk slowly, Viktor clicked the lock shut and sat down at the edge of his bed, thinking. The only thing he would miss would be Hermione's company, and yet the strangest thing was that he had barely spoken to her since the final task. Once or twice he had spent long hours in the Library, barely skimming through books whose contents he forgot instantaneously, trying vainly to convince himself that he was sitting there in an effort to catch up with some missed schoolwork rather than because the thought that she might reappear made his heartbeat buzz beneath his skin.

He had seen her only once during his time in the Hospital Wing, and then she had been tending to Harry. He understood, of course, that Harry needed her, and so he had not pried, had not forced his company upon her, but there was something else too. It had been subtle at first, like the disdain caught in the teeth of a fake smile, but once Viktor had noticed it, it became glaringly obvious to him, so that he saw it every time, so that he couldn't understand how he had missed something so apparent for so long. Whenever she moved carefully through the corridors of the school, silencing the tactless would-be questions from curious students with a momentary but absolutely ferocious glare, two pairs of eyes followed her hungrily, though she noticed neither. As she tiptoed cautiously around the plethora of subjects that she couldn't discuss with her friends any longer, two sets of ears were tuned greedily to the rich tones of her voice. When she reached over suddenly and wrapped her arms around Harry, a silent sign of unwavering support, Viktor knew that the hot swoop of envy he felt in his stomach was not a unique feeling for him alone; it was shared.

Sighing, Viktor stretched and stood. The last day of school was as chaotic as ever, and he had now checked the contents of his trunk so thoroughly for any missing items that he thought he would scream if he looked inside again. He stared pensively out of the window for long moments, watching the shafts of golden light rippling serenely on the still waters of the lake, before suddenly seeming to come to, as if arriving at a sudden decision, the kind of decision that, once arrived at, is as unshakeable and unavoidable as the steady advancement of one's last day on earth. The kind of decision that seizes your limbs and forces you to move, to enact it right this second, before you have a chance to think it over and realise that your heart is crying its feeble protests at the idea of it. Moving quickly he swept from the cabin, disembarking the ship and moving across the grounds of Hogwarts with the determined ease of one on a mission.

**OoOoOo**

The Entrance Hall was crowded, the air positively vibrating with the hum of a thousand conversations, so that the words pressed against his skin as he moved through the huddles of students, words packed so tightly he felt them soaking through into his blood, so that in the middle of the night illogical snatches of conversation would float seamlessly before his eyes. He pushed carefully through the crowd, gently moving students aside with a calculated sweep of his muscled arm, eyes searching keenly for hair the colour of summer's skin, eyes that smiled in the heartbeat-space before her mouth did.

She saw him before he found her, and the smile that hitched about her mouth did not go unnoticed, though it wasn't Viktor who filed it away in his heart. When he finally located her face he moved purposefully towards her, hearing the tail-end of their conversation and ignoring the flicker of annoyance at the innocent assumption.

"Karkaroff did not steer," he said gruffly, and he felt a grim stab of pleasure at Ron's slight embarrassment. "He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork." He let his gaze land upon Hermione, who reddened slightly. "Could I have a vord?" he asked her.

She looked flustered but she agreed, as he'd known she would. Viktor tried to ignore the sensation of being on the receiving end of that shared feeling, though he could feel the sharpened eyes in his back, could almost taste the shape of the unspoken words being fired in his direction. When he was sure they were out of sight, he stopped and turned to face her, weighing the words in his mouth carefully, trying to find the right combination.

"I just vanted to say goodbye. Ve all go home today, and I just vanted to say goodbye to you, and thank you."

Hermione smiled softly, her whole face brightening as she did so. She opened her mouth to speak but Viktor put a hand up, so that she fell silent. The words in his mouth were collecting more rapidly and he knew he had only moments to arrange them properly before they all spilt out, before they got everything wrong.

"I do not think you should come to Bulgaria." There. He'd said it. Her face seemed to crease with confusion but she didn't say a word; she merely looked at him quizzically, as if knowing he would explain and simply deciding to wait for it.

"Vell, I vood like you to come to Bulgaria," he said, stumbling over the words, caught in her half-smile. "But I vood like you to come as my friend only."

He stopped and looked at her. Her face was unreadable; she frowned almost imperceptibly, as if digesting this information and trying to decide how best to process it.

"Just as your friend?" she asked finally. The words were drawn out, carefully, as if she were expecting the truth behind his own to be revealed if she spoke slowly and clearly enough. "Is there a reason for that?"

Viktor smiled. "I think you know vy," he said, and though he made no motion in that direction he watched as Hermione turned her head back in the direction of her friends. Above the swarm of students they could both make out the bobbing red head craning for a look in their direction; they could smell the desperation of wanting to hear their words. Hermione returned her gaze to Viktor once more, her eyes softer than he has ever seen them, so that he is sorry for every word he is saying now.

"He does that a lot," he explained. "I have noticed it. I think you have noticed it also."

Hermione's answer came in the form of a slow-tipped nod and a single offered word. "Yes."

"Then I do not vant to stand in the vay. But I vill miss you, and I hope that you vill still vant to visit me."

He stood before her, looking so sad and so serious that Hermione couldn't help herself; standing on tiptoes to reach him properly she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly, ignoring several surprised looks from students at the edge of the mass.

"Of course I will," she said, her breath hot and sweet in his ear. "And I'll write to you lots, too."

She pulled back. "Thank you," she said softly, pressing the word into his upturned palm like a prayer, and then she kissed his cheek carefully. "I'd better get back."

"Of course," Viktor said, smiling despite himself. "I vill come vith you; I vood like to say goodbye to Harry."

Ron's eyes were fixed searchingly on Hermione's face, as if he could read the words of their conversation in her eyes, but he found nothing.

"I liked Diggory," Viktor said abruptly, facing Harry. The first words he had spoken to his opponent since the Final Task seemed oddly appropriate, though he couldn't have said why these more than any others seemed to slot so naturally into place. It felt important to him somehow that Harry knew this. "He vos alvays polite to me, even though I vos from Durmstrang – with Karkaroff." He scowled at the memory of his headmaster.

"Have you got a new Headmaster yet?" asked Harry, and Viktor shrugged. He held out his hand, shaking Harry's and then extending it to Ron. It took a few moments for Ron to tear his eyes from Hermione's face and then the startled look on his face was almost comical. He seemed to fight it out within himself and for a moment it looked as though petty jealousy had won; Viktor shrugged once more and turned to walk away.

"Can I have your autograph?"

The voice was as unexpected as it was suddenly amusing, and Viktor had to swallow his smile as he turned back to Ron. He couldn't meet Hermione's eyes as he signed the proffered fragment of parchment, knowing she too was barely stifling laughter and knowing equally that looking at her would prove fatal.

**OoOoOo**

_Her eyes are green and endless and make him forget how to breathe. _

_She beckons toward him, the laughter tipping from her mouth and curling up at the ends, wearing the twilight like a cloak. He tries to walk to her but she seems to shrink from him, laughing delicately all the while, the sunlight dancing in the long strands of her shining mane of hair. All he can think of is to touch her, to run his fingers through the tangled blonde curls, to press a kiss against her lips, a stamp of his desire for her. _

_He moves more forcefully, but she continues to evade him, and so he begins to run, faster and faster, pumping his legs until his lungs feel studded with shards of glass, until his vision narrows from exertion and all he can see is her. Still she outruns him, easily, happily, and he forces his legs to work harder, faster, blinded by the overwhelming desire just to touch her, so that all he can see is the shape of her smile, a moonbeam. _

_And then from nowhere he feels surge of adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He pushes himself harder, running faster than he has ever run in his life, faster than breath, faster than dreams, feeling the soft net of grass sliding easily between his toes, feeling the light of the stars above sliding across his skin and focusing so hard on reaching this beautiful girl that he doesn't pause to register the fact that she has stopped running until it is too late and he has built up too much speed to stop. She has not only stopped running; she is holding her arms out to him, the ripples of her dress flowing and unfurling in the light, cascading from her figure, her smile the softest thing he has ever seen, even as he hurtles into her, even as they crash, laughing, to the ground, his arms wrapped tightly around her so that he will not lose her. _

_It isn't until he trusts himself to unwind the coil of his arms around her that he realises that she hasn't let go. _

**Author's Note:**

**There we are. **Falling** is one hundred per cent finished and I will only be tweaking from now on, not adding anything new. I apologise for the long wait between chapters and I hope this was satisfactory for everyone who has been waiting! **

**If anyone has any questions or comments, feel free to let me know. Thanks to everyone who read my story and I hope you all enjoyed it. **

**dogstar**


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